


Rash Confluence

by Ezlebe



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward Romance, Diplomacy, Emotional Ineptitude, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Smoking, vague references to trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-09-29 19:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: “ – to the Supreme Leader Kylo Ren.”Hux blinks and glances sidelong, carefully going over what hethinkshe’s heard, then ultimately refusing to believe it. “Could you repeat that, Admiral Yustes?”Yustes glances backward with a nervous start. He blessedly doesn’t attempt to repeat the announcement at volume, but recites it quieter, as if confirming he’s said all the words in the correct order: “Armitage Hux, Grand Marshal of the First Order and Sovereign Consort to the Supreme Leader Kylo Ren.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Ren does marry Hux without consent, _but_ there is no sexual or romantic pressure. They do sleep in the same bed, but nothing happens within it.

Ren sweeps his gaze across the length of the viewport balcony, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes against the slow ebb of the active party behind him. He can feel the hunger for power of so many manifest upon him, settling with anticipation and a faintest thread of fear; he’s accomplished what before he could only imagine in his most secret moments, cut himself free from every so-called master.

He exhales slowly, peeking open his eyes to observe a far-off nebula; the loneliness is worse, despite everything else, which he had not foreseen. It was arrogance, he knows now, to think his misgivings might burn alongside a corpse. The screams only echo louder than before, howling in the emptiness. He can feel a prickle beneath his skin, spreading slow, and then a pain at the back of his throat… No, _no_, he refuses to let that happen here, in the aftermath of his triumph.

“Supreme Leader, do you have a moment?”

The voice interrupts Ren’s pitying with a jarring snap, prompting him to look sideways with a glare to find a dignitary in the undeniable garb of a queen. He hastily skims her surface thoughts, finding a vaguely familiar name and world, Sarseers Ifrse of Vasar, as well as picking up on a thoroughly off-putting confidence. He glances to her side with unease and realization, to a girl layered in lighter robes and wearing a smaller crown, who looks to be barely twenty.

“I was wondering if you might like to get to know my daughter, Sursre,” Ifrse says, gesturing at her side with a far-too-wide smile across her face. Her heritage is betrayed by her expression, eyeteeth thin and needlelike under her lips. “Seeing as you’re both here alone, it could be auspicious.”

“Ah,” Ren says, looking again at the girl, her red eyes blinking wide then darting down with a troubling flush across her cheeks. He opens his mouth and hears words escape his lips without any real thought, entirely born of discomfort. “I may be alone tonight; however, I am… attached.”

“Are you?” Ifrse pouts, shoving her daughter just slightly forward, as if proximity will change his mind. “You needn’t lie, Supreme Leader, a simple no will suffice.”

“It’s not a lie,” Ren says, irritated this arrogant stranger would dare to argue, let alone shamelessly attempt to manipulate him into showing weakness in both his character and his personal life. The fact she’s correct does have him at a slight loss, now trying to gather any sort of further defense that won’t be caught so quickly, but he – _oh_. Yes. “He was quite vocally at my side during the coronation ceremony.”

“The general?” Ifrse balks, her pleasant expression cracking just slightly as her mouth flattens into a narrow line. “I had no idea.”

“The Grand Marshal,” Ren corrects, uncertain if that was deliberately rude, or simply ignorant. 

“You should have announced him. Although,” Ifrse nudges her daughter again, then moves in closer herself. It is very difficult to ignore an impulse to step back, but Ren can’t afford to show any leeway. “Supreme Leader… You should have a proper partner, from a proper House, rather than some soldier.”

“I don’t limit myself to the outdated ways of Houses,” Ren says, feeling disquiet rise behind his ribs, and oddly little of it to do with referencing of an old life. He’s certain now Ifrse somehow truly didn’t recognize Hux, to dismiss him so carelessly, and wonders how many of these sycophants around him are just the same; falling over themselves to attend the coronation, while forgetting the horror that brought them together. “The Grand Marshal affords me far more as a partner than someone who offers no more than a _name_.”

“Sursre offers you a people,” Ifrse says, her hand visibly tight across her daughter’s shoulder, digging into the fabric of her layered blouse. “Wealth. A planet that — ”

“A planet? The Grand Marshal destroyed _five_,” Ren says, hearing his voice raise and satisfied when they both retreat backward, finally availing him space. “And I believe he had a hand in occupying yours, as well, didn’t he?”

The act finally drops when Ifrse’s face warps with fury and shock; Sursre joining in with an alarmed gasp of ‘_Starkiller?_’ as if she’s only now realized there is a person behind the reputation of planet-eater. It’s a curious thing, such willful ignorance.

“I already have your people and your planet, _Queen_ Ifrse. You’d do well to remember it.”

Ifrse inhales a sharp breath, lingering only a second longer before her hand twists and she’s drawing her daughter away, the both of them red-faced and hissing through their teeth.

Ren watches her turned back, victorious in the moment, then startled some by how much he unexpectedly longs for Hux now that he’s mentioned him; his acerbic presence and sneering expressions, even his unfriendly disposition. He is certain that Hux just being here would make this whole venture more tolerable, even through simple distraction.

But Hux disappeared, likely to bury his head in a data pad, rather than stand next to Ren while toadying to dignitaries and smirking at fellow officers. He probably would have argued Ren’s claim of attachment, but… he also may have understood.

…No, he definitely would have argued it. Loudly.

Ren flinches hard when something _touches_ his elbow, turning quick on a heel to see yet another unfamiliar dignitary in rich garb. He glances down to the hand still clinging to his robes, then flicks his fingers to remove it.

The man bows slightly, reacting only barely to the Force that jerks at his limb. “Supreme Leader,” he says, voice low and clearly some attempt at flattery. “Long may you reign.”

“Thanks,” Ren says, hoping his distaste is obvious across his face.

“I was wondering if you might like to dance,” the man says, gesturing with an open hand and revealing that Ren has gotten a bit too close to the open floor.

“No,” Ren says, then swallows slightly, lifting his chin and feeling the lie come easier this time. He might even spread it across the entire room if he tells it enough; if not, he may have to resort to the Force. “I only dance with my partner.”

The man peeks up, a snakelike smile folding at his mouth. “I could be your partner.”

Ren feels a muscle jump within his cheek.

* * *

“ – sort to the Supreme Leader Kylo Ren.”

Hux blinks and glances sidelong, staring hard at the mouth of the admiral just as he finishes a _far_-too long title announcement, and regrets for the first time in memory his habit of largely ignoring the arrival proclamations. He carefully goes over what he _thinks_ he’s heard, ultimately refusing to believe it. “Could you repeat that, Admiral Yustes?”

Yustes glances backward with a nervous start, brow furrowing, then peeks out to the ship bay, before looking once again to Hux. He blessedly doesn’t attempt to repeat the announcement at volume, but recites it quieter, as if confirming he’s said all the words in the correct order: “Armitage Hux, Grand Marshal of the First Order and Sovereign Consort to the Supreme Leader Kylo Ren.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought you said,” Hux says, straightening and leaning back on a heel, pressing his tongue sharply to the backs of his teeth. “Leave us. I would speak to the Leader. _Alone.”_

Ren doesn’t disagree, but he does stare hard after Yustes for the few moments it takes him to get across the bay, expression going flat and near droid-like before dropping his gaze to the ramp. His body settles into a familiar posture, the sort that begs Hux not to say a word, but not quite to the point he’ll verbalize it. It’s never been particularly effective.

Hux allows himself a single, controlled wring of his hands, then forces them down to his sides. “You signed something without looking, didn’t you?”

“No,” Ren says, raising a single shoulder to shrug and stepping forward down the ramp.

Hux grudgingly follows, hands tightening into fists as he shoves in to do his best at keeping the conversation for their ears alone. “Are you certain?”

Ren gives a low hum. “You did.”

“_I did_?” Hux repeats, truly startled and feeling his expression twist, clearing his throat in attempt to recover. It sounds more like a hysterical laugh trying to escape. “When was this?”

“Four days ago,” Ren says, lifting his head some and peering from the corner of his eye, visibly smug at achieving this apparent trick.

Hux stares at him for a few moments, unsure, then realizes the exact moment he’d let his guard down. “That argument against the transportation budget,” he says, feeling his mouth fold into a snarl. “I should’ve known you don’t care about that.”

“I don’t,” Ren admits, shrugging again with further indifference.

Hux sweeps his eyes across the floor in front of him, swallowing a rising nausea. “You decided marrying me was… _Why_?”

“It’s not marriage,” Ren says, leading with a march though the troopers and officers of the _Denouement_ at an irking speed. They’re going to arrive at the meeting before Hux has gotten his explanation. “It’s a nonsense title. For a favored bedwarmer.”

“Do you listen to yourself?” Hux asks, taking a sharp breath and willfully silencing the thousand or so examples that jump to mind, all demonstrating that Ren very much does not – he refuses to get drawn out of this row by his own scattered thoughts. “A _legally official_ bedwarmer? That’s a bloody spouse! And neither should be associated with me! The most intimate we've been is you rudely knocking into me.”

“I needed some way to deter those – ”

“Is this _still_ about your Coronation?” Hux interrupts in disbelief, realizing the pleasant ceasing of complaints about their allies had nothing to do with getting over them. He hadn’t even been there for the after-party, and subsequently took the complaints as exaggeration – from his understanding, the few hopefuls that approached hadn’t even been particularly predatory, simply trying to foist their unmarried representatives onto Ren and quieting the moment he declined. “I can’t believe you would do this to avoid little more than _minutes_ of awkwardness!”

“You should be relieved,” Ren says, glancing sidelong with a slow flicker of his eyelashes. “It makes me less likely to kill you.”

Hux suffers an impulse to inform Ren that it’s rather the opposite from his perspective, but swallows it down with other concerns still crowding his dazed mind. “It will be much more difficult to undo this than it was to do it.”

“I have no need to undo it,” Ren says, as if it’s just that simple; perhaps, it is to him, but he is a proven _nitwit_.

“Yet,” Hux says, trying to continue calmly as he can, as he has with so many things recently – it’s proven mostly ineffective so far, but he holds hope. Rare as it is, history has shown if he argues long enough with rationality specifically, Ren might buckle against the pressure to be at least levelheaded in turn. “If you plan to keep this position long, you will undoubtedly meet someone over the course of – ”

“I won’t,” Ren interrupts, chin lifting with a nod, as if that is in any manner an argument. “Snoke had no one.”

“Snoke hired out!” Hux snaps, tightening the fist at his side and looking momentarily at the plating beneath their feet, grimacing in little more than second-hand pity. Those poor creatures.

Ren exhales heavily – his first sign of entirely deserved regret. “It’s not as if – ”

“You will not be sullying my dignity any more than you have,” Hux says, catching on to what is being proposed and entirely unwilling to hear it said aloud. He cannot help but imagine the whispers and rumors from allies, not to mention the mocking comments of his peers. “Throwing me around in front of my subordinates is one thing – ”

Ren outright growls, turning in the hall and cutting off Hux’s next step. He gestures sharply, upward to his own temple, as his expression twists into a ghoulish frown. “I wasn’t in my right mind!”

“That excuse comes up a lot, doesn’t it,” Hux snarls, sneering and leaning in just as close, until he’s sure Ren can _feel_ the impact of his words. “Do you have a right mind?”

Ren bares his teeth, tilting his head sharply and neck audibly cracking, “Do you?”

Hux narrows his eyes, firmly holding Ren’s fixed stare. He weighs the value of being drawn into that argument, yet finds the projection of it too frustrating to carry out. It may be satisfying to belittle Ren’s stability, for a few moments, but the simple fact of Ren leashing them together to avoid _people_ at _parties_ tamely presents all the needed points for him. “Sanity notwithstanding,” he says, shifting his posture a spare few centimeters and feeling every muscle along his spine tighten. “You will _not_ make me look some weak fool who suffers an unfaithful partner. In any sense.”

Ren shakes his head, an unabashed scoff escaping his mouth. “It won’t be unfaithful if I have your permission.”

“You won’t,” Hux says flatly, feeling something sharp and furious finally recover from underneath his shock. He grinds his teeth, “Maybe if you had asked before carrying out this farce, allowed me some say, but you didn’t, did you, Supreme Leader? So you’ll deal with the consequences of your actions.”

Ren tilts his head, brow furrowing he regards Hux for a moment of evident thought. “And in the case I do so without you noticing?”

Hux narrows his eyes, leaning forward again and keeping his voice low. “Try it.”

Ren shifts his jaw, looking away with a blink and trying to disguise the weakness with a contemplative glance down the hall. “What say could you have had? Aside for refusal.”

“I could have volunteered the obvious notion to entrap some moron who _wants_ the title,” Hux says, tempted to point out that any one of the numerous people that had been rebuffed at the coronation could have been tolerable, if they were kept away and content to have little more power than a worm. The security risk would have to be reviewed, their political and economic value, but in all, it would have been a better option than _him_.

Ren is quiet for a few moments, then, “Did you have someone in mind?”

“No,” Hux says, exhaling hard in a scoff and forcing himself to take a full step back, before he can give into the urge to provoke Ren to the point of explosion; he’s been rather less volatile since his inglorious takeover, since _Snoke_, but not inert. “But between your bloodline and your current position, you could have chosen literally anyone.”

“Clearly not,” Ren mutters, his mouth set into an unreadable line.

Hux reins in an insult from the tip of his tongue, trying not to muse if Ren is hung up on anyone with the Republic – some sort of long-lost love that he met as an ignorant child. “You could have chosen any _ally_.”

Ren maintains an almost disturbing stare straight into Hux’s eyes, as if waiting, then turns away to step in the direction of their meeting. “Wrong, again.”

Hux glares down the corridor and grudgingly follows, digging fingertips into his palm and thankful for the gloves. “About?”

Ren is quiet for a few more steps, clearing his throat just as they approach the entry to the assembly room. “It’s not harder to undo.”

“Will you?” Hux asks, inwardly cursing the too-careful tone of his own voice; it won’t do to sound so hopeful.

“No,” Ren says, gesturing at the door and prompting it to open, revealing rows of High Command behind it.

Hux grimaces a greeting after grudgingly allowing Ren to proceed him to the head of the table. If given any warning at all, a little time and distance, he _may _have gotten used to the idea, as marital status means nothing within the command structure and he’s well enough practiced at ignoring anything outside of it; instead, he'll be forced to act unconcerned to a group of bloodthirsty snakes who have likely heard about his espousal _before_ him.

The assumption is made true when the meeting opening proves to be is torturous, though thankfully _most_ are not particularly obvious in their curiosity. It's the feeling underneath it all that gets to him, facing the stares and watching various inappropriate glances down while High Command gossips among themselves over data pads. He tries to dismiss it with the issue at hand, announcing that the purpose of the meeting is to settle on a scheme to divert already dwindling resources to recruiting Force users, but it's quickly proven futile once the first question asked is directed toward Ren with evident concern towards his favoring Hux’s opinion.

It is only made worse when Ren answers this with a slow blink and a glance over to Hux, because he’s a prat with a terrible sense of humor.

Hux promptly ends the failed meeting with a flat announcement of the next one, two ternary cycles from the same time over holo, and not a single officer seems to understand why. He can only hope the novelty will have worn off in a few cycles, spare him being further demanded to defend a position he has no desire to hold, and to some of the very people that thought to seek it.

Hux looks over once every officer has filed out, exhaling a snarl, only to see Ren has escaped among the others like a wraith, likely to defer being blamed

The combined frustration drives Hux to retreat to his guest quarters, marching quickly through the halls and convincing himself it's to gather his remaining wits before the next disaster. Tragically, he only finds that such privacy is unlikely ever to be afforded to him again, when the door slides open to reveal a suite rather than his usual assigned single. The quarters are the sort he’s only been in to inspect, oversized and made up of multiple rooms, filled with attempts at useless luxury presumably for the _Supreme Leader_, most notably chilled platters of unfamiliar foods that are an obvious waste of credits.

He has a momentary thought to message Ren his frustration about it, interrupt whatever precious business he's run of to conduct, but dismisses it; he’s been in Ren’s ignominious company for long enough to know how unlikely it is that _this_ part of it was planned. Ren already expressed how little he understood what he’d done, and to tell him now would rob Hux the opportunity to see his expression.

He does carefully set his data pad on the counter, taking a few moments to glance across the colorful trays of wasteful decadence. The reluctance to partake is twofold, as any one of them could make him sick, and any missing are likely to draw attention, but every tea sandwich and fruit looks so tempting after nearly nine hours without anything more than caf. He gives in and picks up a yellow star-shaped fruit, neatly biting off the tip of an arm, only to freeze in childish panic when the door alarm sounds at nearly the same moment.

He recovers after a brief rationalization that Brendol is very much dead, and takes a larger, slightly vindictive bite of the fruit while he checks the door cams. An ensign stands on the other side, spine rigid, hands in a perfect triangle at their back, and Hux debates ordering them away before grudgingly releasing the mag locks.

He takes the opportunity to achieve a manner of petty recompense, eating the remainder of the fruit and chewing purposefully slow while the ensign obediently waits for him to finish. He reaches out for another fruit just as he finishes, watching the ensign twitch around the eyes, and nearly asks why they’ve not sent a droid if all they’re going to do is stand there, but knows that would be particularly rude to some dutiful officer who likely sees speaking to him as an honor. He’s not going to let Ren ruin his reputation any further than strictly required.

“Yes, Ensign?” Hux asks, carefully wiping his fingers on a convenient napkin.

“I was given orders to retrieve you for the fitting of your uniform for the fete, sir,” the ensign says, bowing their head slightly and gesturing toward the door. “If you would like to follow me.”

Hux follows the hand with a glance and a low hum, then a moment later gives a short tip of his head. The ensign is clearly ordered by Ren in some capacity, so using him as an excuse would be rather senseless. “Will this be long?”

“No, sir,” the ensign says, lifting their head slightly and resuming that particularly stiff at attention. “The master tailor has much of the uniform fabricated. It only needs fitting.”

Hux follows the ensign into the halls with a straight back and slight roil in his gut, wondering bitterly how Ren had managed to pinpoint _this_ particular aversion. A subtle mind probe is on the short list, though he may have simply noticed, as Hux has long loathed the laundry sector and its fitting rooms, being subject to all manner of judging stares from each of his yearly fittings. He can hardly stand medical inspections for the same reason, and if asked which he liked less, would find it difficult to choose.

The ensign leads him to the laundry and beyond, stopping at a narrow hall at the very back, where a door slides open to reveal an unusual array of fabrics stacked haphazard around a narrow platform. The presumed tailor stands in the back, a weedy Petty Officer with small glasses and a stitching droid at their shoulder, and something about them undeniably familiar.

“Welcome, Grand Marshal,” the tailor greets, leaning forward with a slight bow and a deferential glance down. “Thank you for making time. I am Petty Officer Aristus Trasus.”

“I do hope it will be quick,” Hux says, looking to the ensign with a backward nod at the door. He hardly needs a witness for anything that may happen, and is satisfied once he hears the quiet hiss of the pneumatics, leaving him alone with the tailor.

“Yes, sir,” Trasus says, taking a step back and gesturing slightly to his back, an exaggerated look of shame upon his face. “I apologize for the mess. I am usually stationed on the _Supremacy.”_

“Ah,” Hux nods, ignoring an entirely traitorous delight at the destruction of the laundry. He clears his throat, glancing across the haphazard stacks of odd fabric with some attempt at pity. “The repairs are going well. I’m sure you will be back there soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Trasus says, his expression more a tight grimace than a smile. “Please step onto the platform. We only need to measure the uniform jacket – the shoulders and neck are slightly altered compared to your daily uniform.”

Hux nods a moment of hesitation before stepping up, looking quickly away from the mirror that emerges from the wall. He glances down as a light coat is summarily lifted and draped across his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at the bold arcs of gold over black gaberwool. He’s been here only moments and already they’ve stuck him in _epaulets_; it’s not a uniform, it’s a bloody costume.

“Almost perfect, sir,” Trasus says, stepping down and pulling at the hem of coat. He hums low, then pinches at the sides, down Hux’s spine, and fixes a clip in the lacking space. “What do you think?”

“I do not understand the expense,” Hux admits, exhaling slowly and reluctantly catching his own eyes in the mirror. He turns to angle at the mirror and sees chains draping down his shoulders, up along his spine, and feels them sweeping across his back when he moves. It looks important; it _feels_ like a cage.

“Special occasions, sir,” Trasus says, backing up a few steps and grabbing a belt from the rack; black with gold stitching, it’s just more of the rest. He holds it up, as if considering, then steps back on a heel to place it back in its place. “The Supreme Leader has voiced some distress for the First Order’s lack of ceremonial dress.”

“I see,” Hux says, indulging the impulse to roll his eyes.

“Not directly, of course,” Trasus continues, adding another clip between Hux’s shoulders, consequently forcing straighter posture. He tuts shortly, scuttling over to his table of nonsense items to grab a roll of something gold. “He simply asked if the First Order had the tradition, and I had to give him a negative.”

Hux raises a brow at his own reflection. “Ah.”

“Yes, but that,” Trasus seems to come up short, eyes narrowing at some middle distance when Hux turns to look once the pause goes on for seconds. “Must have been three years ago. He’s since seen to change that himself.”

Hux feels a twitch at the corner of his mouth, jaw shifting, and chooses to hold his tongue. He also has an unkind urge to mention that it was difficult to tell that Ren's past wardrobes had involved a tailor.

Trasus goes about the rest without commentary, directing a droid to lift and sew seams with practiced gestures. The fitting is short as promised, though the alterations go far more than simple neckline. “Do you have any requests, sir?”

“It is… acceptable,” Hux says, dragging his eyes away from the damning mirror. The fit is similar to his uniform coat, bracing and somewhat stiff like combat armor, but that means little for how it actually makes him look. It’s slimmer around his waist than strictly comfortable, the collar split with a gilded, sideways descent that only makes his neck seem reedy, and the hem length ends at the knee rather than the ankle, transforming his legs into toothpicks; the only comfort is the epaulets manage to widen his shoulders.

“Thank you, sir,” Trasus says, appearing frustratingly resistant to Hux’s tone. “However, I meant for Supreme Leader.”

Hux finds himself taken aback at the suggestion he have on opinion, his mind oddly blank – he dislikes that Ren's clothing is always so non-regulatory, certainly, but it's been practical enough. “A holster for his saber,” he decides, remembering how haphazard it had looked at the coronation, something he had only realized afterward while reviewing in his office. He’d been more concerned with Ren’s expression during the actual event, trying to determine whether the Supreme Leader might turn the stage to splinters if someone touched him wrong. “Otherwise, he looks like a fool carrying it around in his belt.”

“…Yes, sir,” Trasus says, sending a glance to the droid, which floats down and skitters to a data pad, retrieving it for Trasus with an agreeable beep.

“Will his cloak be the same?” Hux says, suddenly thinking of the glittering near-memento of Snoke, strung around Ren’s broad shoulders and almost too ostentatious for a man who still has a habit to lurk in shadows.

“Yes, sir,” Trasus says, nodding shortly and writing in a swirling shorthand across the screen with his pen. He looks up a beat later, dropping his hands and crossing them with the data pad at his back. “I’ve designed you to match.”

Hux manages not to frown at the implication. It’s no different than their uniforms, in essence, only with pointless gold for effect. “It should be a gradient instead,” he says, this time dropping the tone of suggestion in favor of a clear order; the event is in less than 36 hours, but the head tailor doubtlessly _has_ the resources to reweave his design. “Black to gold. It would have meaning for him.”

Trasus goes still for a few moments, suddenly regarding Hux with new intensity, then tilts his head and brings the data pad back up. “Yes, sir.”

Hux looks away, peeking again at his reflection; it’s not so terrible on the second glance. He shifts his feet, seeing that it improves the lines, and thinks… maybe it will be fine to wear something that fits so close this once. The people who mocked him for his lack of physical bearing are now dead, their opinions worth even less, and Ren… He might say something, but it would be odd for him to bring it up now after six years of picking apart everything else.

“Did you have any other concerns, sir?” Trasus says, pulling the jacket from Hux’s shoulders with a short clear of his throat.

Hux steps from the dais while reaching for his proper coat, raising his chin in question. “Will it be delivered to my suite in time?”

“Yes, sir,” Trasus says, handing a folded jacket to his droid with a pair of careful movements; he turns to look with a final dip of his head. “Beginning of second cycle tomorrow.”

Hux nods shortly, then takes a step back as a short buzz vibrates against his hip; he has an actual meeting to get to, which should be far more productive. “I will see myself out.”

He nods at a pair of saluting troopers as he exits the laundry, trying to bury any further thoughts of the gala he’s suddenly been all but ordered to attend tomorrow with, and by, his _spouse_. He can only attempt to distract himself with work, and hopes Yustes will have gotten over the earlier blather of the High Command meeting. He advances through the upper levels and halls, pulling out his data pad while rehearsing discussions of regime change and how this might be time to conduct a survey of resuming mining feasibility in the Crait system; he has to get _something_ out of that otherwise fruitless victory.

“Punctual as ever, Grand Marshal,” Yustes greets, gesturing Hux into his office with a deep nod and an upturned hand toward a sitting area. “Or should I say, Sovereign Consort to the Supreme Leader?”

Hux follows the gesture without responding, gritting his teeth and idly thinking about a ban on any mention of Ren in his presence, but that hadn’t worked even when the ass was neither Supreme Leader nor spouse. He’ll still likely mention the idea to said ass, since it seems nothing is going to be discussed about proper work this entire stopover because of him.

Yustes brings a modest plate of dry biscuits to pair with the tea, which is a rather disappointing offer after the spread in the guest quarters. “I hadn’t the _slightest_ idea you were involved until it was announced.” 

“Why would you have?” Hux manages to ask, resigning to the farce; he may as well angle for making this new position as gainful as possible. “It’s hardly relevant to the greater goal.”

Yustes looks down with pursed lips, dipping one of the tasteless biscuits into his tea. “True enough, sir. I will say most of us were quite surprised that you had ever considered marriage, let alone gone through with one.” He bites into the biscuit, humming shortly, then does the disservice of catching Hux’s eye while chewing and speaking, “Though this sort of clandestine affair explains that – it’s somewhat storybook, really, having to hide in such a manner until the Supreme Leader… ah, _ascended_.”

Hux blinks slowly, turning his head some should his incredulity be obvious across his face; evidently, this marriage might be considered star-crossed by the more sentimental of the First Order, which is just capital. He could probably use the concept for propaganda, but it also seems that it would be so utterly insulting to himself that he is not sure it’s worth trying. He could go a lifetime without inviting more contemplations on his _affairs, _let alone if Ren got wind of it; although, perhaps he’d more readily offer an annulment if he discovered no one but idealistic morons who fabricate their own stories are ever going to see this marriage as anything but dubious.

“It has been difficult,” he says aloud, knowing he’s been quiet too long, but unsure what else there is to say. He’s more practiced at hiding his personal life, what little there is, and to speak of it now sets a certain uncomfortable thrum under his skin.

Even as a lie.

Yustes nods a few of times too many, leaning forward just slightly in his seat. “Well, I think – ” A door alarm blessedly interrupts him before he can _think_ anything more that might earn him the sharp end of a blade. He flinches backward, looking toward the entry, then hastily sets down his tea when the alarm sounds a second time. “Excuse me, sir.”

Hux allows himself a sneer once Yustes’ back turns, contemplating the notion of throwing his tea, cup and all, at the back of that balding head. He’s on this ship for work, to solidify the Order’s next move, not to cover for Ren’s latest cock-up – and absolutely no one seems to have noticed that except _him_. He’s had so many unproductive hours that it’s going to give him fits.

The ire is amplified some when he catches what’s on the other side of the door. He watches Ren’s BB-unit peek sideways and downs the rest of his tea with a slightly impolite swig, though he’s well past caring about propriety at this point.

“Astromech,” Yustes says, bemused and regarding the BB-unit with a growing stiffness to his posture. “Depart at once. I am in a meeting.”

BB9e rolls past with little acknowledgement and settles in front of Hux with a trilling beep. It bobs back and forth slightly, then trills again, eyeing Hux steadily while it delivers demands that boil down to complaints, though the droid is far more polite than Ren must have been about it.

“Yes, I’ll come right away,” Hux says to the droid, sighing mostly to not appear too thankful at the excuse to leave. It’s awful that an argument with Ren may be the most constructive way to end this entire shift.

The BB9e turns to Yustes as it rolls past, pausing with an apology and a promise it won’t happen again. It pauses, waiting for a response, then offers a sullen beep at being ignored.

“Go on, he doesn’t owe you a thing,” Hux says, gesturing with his chin for the BB to continue toward the door. “You did interrupt a meeting.”

BB offers another, shorter beep, exiting soon and somehow managing to do it in a sulk. It’s been with Ren far too long without a proper diagnostic.

“I don’t speak binary, sir,” Yustes says, looking over to Hux with an awkward turn to his lips. “Never quite caught on to it.”

“Ah,” Hux says, setting the tea to the table while he rises to his feet. He pauses to check his data pad, glancing across silenced messages, then becomes irritated twice over when he opens it to read them and instead sees immediately the notes of what he _meant_ to discuss during this meeting. “I would see to correcting that, Admiral – binary is a requirement of any officer rank.”

Yustes nods tightly, his eyes darting sideways, “Yes, sir.”

“The Supreme Leader has requested I meet with him,” Hux says, feeling irritated in yet another direction for having to explain himself now to this unqualified gossip monger. “Now.”

“He sent a droid for you?” Yustes asks, his tone rising into a rather uncalled-for attitude.

“Would you rather he came in person?” Hux asks, just slightly dry; he’s unsure of Yustes’ opinion on Ren, but it must be _something_ like that of most officers.

Yustes purses his lips in just the barest control of a grimace, then nods in a short drop of his head. “Well. I do hope to return to our conversation soon.”

“I’ll reschedule the meeting for holo,” Hux says, starting for the door and unsurprised that it opens to BB dutifully waiting for him on the other side, perhaps not even ordered to do it. He turns for a last word at Yustes, easily fixing his expression into disapproval. “Utilizing this system is of _ultimate_ importance. I had planned to address it before you got so unfocused, Admiral.”

“Yes, sir,” Yustes says, dropping his head in predictable toadying manner. He deserves it entirely when the door cuts slides shut just as his mouth opens for another spiel.

Hux checks the time on his data pad to find he had only been with Yustes for ten minutes, though it had felt like an hour; BB9E must have been expected to interrupt something important. He glances down once he reaches the lift, a thought occurring, “Did he tell _you _about this consort business?”

BB peeks up and simply trills a vague response of polite, nonsensical beeps, which is indirect but most certainly a confirmation.

“I see,” Hux says, looking back up and watching letters and numbers shift closer to the personnel levels. “You should remember who schedules your services the next time such a secret comes up.”

BB9E blips in a hurried, if rote apology, insincere in an uncannily similar manner to its master despite speaking entirely without words. It will definitely need a diagnostic before Ren can ruin it any further with such insubordinate personality.

Hux is both exasperated and relieved by the sight that greets him in the suite: a slumped over Ren sitting cross-legged on the _floor_, oddly enough, engrossed and scowling at a data pad. He glances at the walls and across the floor from edge to edge, but sees not so much as a scratch – to his surprise, Ren doesn’t seem to have reacted in any more extreme manner than a sulk and sending BB to get him. A pair boots are thrown in the corner, but that’s not particularly much. “Taxing meditation?”

Ren looks up from his data pad with a start, motionless for a beat, then practically throws the device with furor while gesturing to the room at large. “What? Is _this_.”

“I don’t know, Ren,” Hux says, shrugging off his coat while hearing his own voice raise in pitch and turn mocking with only the barest effort. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have gotten married.”

“I didn’t get married,” Ren argues, becoming louder in turn, lurching up from the floor with a demonstrative step forward, little more than stomping at the ground. “There wasn’t a _ceremony_.”

“You’ll have to bring that up with Yustes,” Hux says, forcing himself to approach and sit down on the settee with an indifferent scoff, though fairly certain Ren can see right through it. He should probably mention that the First Order doesn’t have marriage ceremonies, as such, but it would likely fall deaf upon oversized, Republic ears. “_He_ clearly thinks you did. As does every person I speak to – I could probably take a survey of the bloody MSE droids and they’d have the same opinion.”

“Speak to droids often, do you?” Ren sneers, taking a heaving breath and drawing his shoulders up in some attempt to bolster his already ludicrous breadth.

Hux rolls his eyes at the posturing, taking his data pad out in a bid for distraction. “They’re certainly better company than present.”

Ren grumbles something incomprehensible and likely non-Basic, promptly slumping onto a nearby chair with a glower at the floor. He goes through a truly irksome number of sighs and mutters, then leans forward with his feet curling further together under him. “Everyone?”

Hux makes a point to answer immediately, peeking up from his data pad. “Everyone.”

Ren grunts shortly, hands flexing against his thigh.

“The admiral in particular seems to believe you killed Snoke for romantic reasons,” Hux says, trying to keep his voice light, flicking and dismissing messages on his data pad without bothering to read most of them. He will likely regret it later, but the current issue at hand, he’s realizing, may last _years_. “Though I doubt the opinion is shared among the rest of our peers.”

Granted, it’s far better than admitting Ren only killed him amidst some misguided attempt to recruit an enemy.

Ren clears his throat in a manner that sounds like it might hurt. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I’m not a moron,” Hux says flatly, looking up and finding Ren’s expression to be twitchy and ill-at-ease. It seems Ren hasn’t yet realized he’s a terrible liar when he’s not using the Force to support his excuses, and that’s especially true without the helmet. “Snoke had that room monitored at _far_ too many angles – I can only assume to log his abuses for later enjoyment.”

Ren stares back firmly for a moment before he glances down with a start, jaw tightening.

“I also saw he tried to electrocute you only minutes before you took to your TIE,” Hux says, a little vindictive and pointlessly so when most of who it’s directed to is spaced ash. “Which could have rendered you utterly useless so soon after surgery, though doubt he cared – the absolute bastard.”

“Split your lip,” Ren adds, proceeding to pause for a few moments too long, then slumping into his seat. “Just earlier.”

“Inconsequential compared to your extended tantrum,” Hux reminds defensively, ignoring the stutter in his chest at the fact Ren even knew about that – he thought he managed to clean himself up enough afterward that it wasn’t so obvious. He can’t imagine Ren speaking to the crew, but he must have, or for some reason gleaned it from their minds. “As well as the escape of the Resistance, obviously, but it hasn’t been a complete loss – the fleet is being repaired at an acceptable rate and you’ve thus far proven an excellent figurehead.”

“Figurehead,” Ren repeats, a new scowl growing across his expression, awkwardness waning to annoyance. “Do you think… you’ve been managing my reign?”

“I had been, undeniably,” Hux says, brandishing the data pad as a show of his own weapon, or at least the most useful of them. “Until you went and _married_ us. I don’t even know the breadth of my rank now – Sovereign Consort. What is that?”

“It’s not a position that existed,” Ren says, leaning back in his chair with a marked glance to the view port and a dismissive gesture. “It’s made up. All the ranks are.”

“They are not,” Hux says, shocked that even Ren would even say such a thing – he _knows_ they have ranks in the Republic military.

“They are,” Ren says, defending himself with an upturn of his nose, a sneer flickering across his mouth. “Promoted only to progressive privileges to individuality. You don’t even get paid.”

“Why would I need paid? The Order provides all I need,” Hux says, repeating the old line mostly by rote, then realizing with discomfort that it sounds more hollow than if he’d said it only months ago.

Ren rolls his eyes, catching Hux with a dark look, then slumping further into a laze on the chair with his head back. “It’s a common title. Prince Consort.”

Hux exhales slowly, grateful Ren hasn’t noticed the momentary failing. He can’t let the recent events effect his resolve, not matter how… No matter what was lost.

“But I don’t want to hear the word _prince_,” Ren continues, his voice dropping to a veritable growl, clearly harboring resentment against a simple word. “I’ve come further than a monarch of an asteroid field.”

Hux mulls over the myriad of responses he could offer to that declaration, then sets aside his data pad, as he chooses the simplest. “You just admitted that you know exactly what you did.”

“I did not,” Ren snaps, somehow more affronted at being caught out in this lie than he had been for _killing_ _Snoke_.

“Prince consort?” Hux repeats, carefully enunciating the words and certain that his skepticism is evident. “Your bloody father was called that, wasn’t he?”

Ren’s mouth twists, clearly biting his tongue behind closed lips. He tips his head to the side, eyes briefly meeting Hux’s before going back to the ceiling, which is probably all the admittance that will come from him.

Hux huffs low and shoves off the settee, seeking some other distraction lest he grab one of the cushions at his back and throw it. He approaches the small kitchenette, peering at the empty counter space that once held the trays, and wonders unhappily if Ren had gotten rid of them.

“Conservator,” Ren says, in a sulking mutter that manages to cross the room.

Hux hums a vague response and kneels, opening it to find the tray and star fruits relatively unharmed. He plucks one from the top, then takes another, stacking them carefully in his hand; he still hasn’t checked if they might be poisonous, but he believes that he might have been spared the meeting with Yustes had that been the case.

“Of course, you like those,” Ren says, mocking voice practically right in Hux’s ear. “Gross.”

“They certainly aren’t,” Hux says, as he pointedly takes a bite of one, looking up, only to find Ren is still in his seat rather than looming over him. He stands quickly, fixing his glare across the room. “Are you speaking in my head?”

_‘Yes,’_ Ren answers, turning his head on the chair with a frown across his firmly closed mouth. ‘_Obviously_.’

“I didn’t give you permission to do that,” Hux says, too drained to be more demonstrably angry – it’s nerve-wracking that Ren can so easily slip into his mind, to be sure, but after today it’s just another layer of shit. He moves to take his seat again and briefly thinks to kick out, as he walks past Ren, but he only allows himself so much immaturity and he’s already eating a sweetfruit.

Ren watches along, it seems, staring while Hux settles back in front of the data pad. _‘I’ve done it before.’_

“When?” Hux scoffs, realizing just after that continuing to eat the starfruit probably undermines his frustration.

_‘When we speak and I don’t want anyone to hear me,’ _Ren explains, and his next words are in a growling, simulation of a voice that Hux has not heard since Ren destroyed half a lift using his helmet as a bludgeon._ ‘Before, you couldn’t notice.’_

“So I’ve – ” Hux bites hard into his lower lip, inhaling a deep breath, then exhaling slowly; he’s held back from shouting this long, he will not break now. “How many times have I looked like a bloody fool speaking to a silent man, Ren?”

“I don’t know,” Ren says, aloud this time. His voice has gained an echo of real sound that it previously lacked, and it’s so obvious now it is being listened for, which is absolutely frustrating. “Why would I keep track?”

“I’m not going to speak to you like this,” Hux snaps, feeling more irritated now that Ren seems to be only participating in the argument because it passes the time, not because he feels the need to defend his rudely invasive behavior. He never seems to think anything he does will be disagreeable, or even simply _weird_.

Ren’s expression twitches with an idle smirk_._ “Then answer me the same.”

Hux stares back for a beat, suffering that irritating prickle of a challenge thrown; he doesn’t even know how to… Is it that simple think back? _‘What does that even mean?’_

Ren makes a choked noise, shifting in his seat. “Not so loud.”

“I was literally silent,” Hux says, a tight feeling of frustration at the base of his throat; it’s been some time since he had this little context for a task.

‘**_Sound is relative_**,’ Ren counters, somehow managing to make the words echo like a shout through a loudhailer.

_‘It’s not sound_,’ Hux responds, trying to _imagine_ the words quieter and feeling an utter moron for it. He has no reason to even be trying – he should have just told Ren he would never speak to him again. Far more sensible.

_‘Better,’_ Ren responds softly, and the word is accompanied by some odd sensation, perhaps an attempt at tone, though the feeling behind it is unclear. He goes quiet for a few seconds, in all respects, then offers up a ridiculous pull at his lips that looks far too much like a pout. _‘Get me my data pad?’_

“No,” Hux says aloud, rolling his eyes and determinedly looking back to his own work, opening his messages with a flick of his fingers and seeing one from Yustes that came in less than ten minutes past. He taps on it, expecting toadying apologies, only to see attached schedule for tomorrow, which reminds him again that he’s _married_ to the lazy bastard using the Force to pull a data pad out from under a table.

Truly, Hux never expected to manage anything more romantically serious than an acquaintance in his time, let alone a _spouse_. He hasn’t been willing to spare the time and attention courtship would take away from the First Order, not to mention the trouble of finding someone acceptable, so he may as well be bound to the leader of it in an official manner. The fact that it’s Ren is… of little matter, though he is certainly unacceptable, but Hux may yet consider it reparations for putting up with years of tantrums and thoughtless decisions – even if said restitution involves a good deal more trouble, at least he has fresh food.

And really, the mere idea of _Snoke_ is far, far more repugnant. Ren is, at least, agreeable enough with his mouth closed.

He peeks sideways, watching Ren mutter and frown at the data pad set in his lap, not even bothering to use the holo-function, though perhaps he’s broken it. Or he has something to hide, but hopefully he’d be at least clever enough not to conduct his secrets from less than a meter away.

Ren glances up a second later, blinking back with a bemused look, then scowls hard. “What?”

Hux clears his throat, attempting to shake the sudden discomfort and looking back down to his data pad. “Just shocked you haven’t handed me _all_ your work.”

Ren offers a growling mutter in return, but little more.

Hux buries himself in the screen again, something odd settling in his chest when he opens an older project. He should go back to review those skipped messages, full of names he doesn’t recognize from personnel that replaced personnel, little sparking disappointments all their own. But he knows that it will be little more than busy work before he gets a ration and some sleep, so he ignores the nagging at the back of his mind and flicks his fingers to single out then turn the wing of the TIE project over.

He startles some when he hears a disconcerting scratching, looking to the chair and suffering an uncomfortable realization that Ren had somehow moved without his noticing. He glances to the kitchenette, watching while Ren shakes a bottle to blend the protein powder to a slurry.

“You are the only soul in the Order who enjoys those,” Hux says, in some disgust – he far prefers the ration bars and _their_ foul play at flavor.

Ren rolls his eyes, chugging down the thick, grainy mixture like it’s nothing. He sets the shaker back to the counter, then kneels down to the conservator again, reaching in like his arm might disappear through the back.

Hux leans sideways, reluctantly intrigued. “What are you doing now?”

‘_Food_,’ Ren responds, pulling his hand back and revealing a pair of items from the tray of neatly cut tea sandwiches. He stands and starts moving, ultimately stopping in front of Hux to shove both out forward in evident offering.

“I’m not hungry,” Hux says, glancing to the sandwiches with a frown. He doesn’t eat such food particularly often, bread and fillings too unpredictable; he prefers neatly labeled ingredients, not guessing games of flavors and allergies.

“Eat it,” Ren insists, shoving it forward and turning it to show off the inside, filled with something green and white. “If you don’t, it’ll go to _waste_.”

Hux glares back for a few seconds, irked that Ren would say such a thing, and even more so that Ren evidently knows full well how it now forces him to take it. He can’t abide by waste, let alone in food.

The sandwich is cold in his hand, chilled and a little stiff by the conservator. He takes a small bite.

“Cuke,” Ren says, almost looming now, intense and curious. “And agamar cream.”

“Agreeable,” Hux mutters, taking another bite when Ren does nothing but continue to stare; it’s becoming a little concerning now if this sandwich is entirely harmless. 

Ren eventually starts eating his own half, seemly satisfied by some unknown criteria while he takes a step sideways to slump back into his chair. He takes up the data pad again, undeniably _smirking_, and returns to scrolling at mysterious goings-on across the screen.

Hux finishes the sandwich slowly, eyeing Ren and sorely tempted to ask, but not quite willing to entertain whatever it might be this late in the evening. He’s also rather sure that Ren wants him to ask, and it’s a victory of his own not to satisfy that particular desire.

He goes for his own data pad, tempted to return to the prototype, but a notification handily reminds him that duty is duty. He taps it to open, reluctantly beginning the first of many responses to questions that are little more than common sense. The _Supremacy_ repairs are well underway, but far from finished, and the demands for guidance are nearly to same degree as during Starkiller’s construction. It’s a sobering thought, reminding him that it was only a standard month past that everything had crumbled around him.

It’s all the more frustrating knowing the project could be more efficient he were just _there_ rather than across lightyears and unanswered messages. He can’t even be sure they’re doing all he’s asking, not anymore, though he –

He looks up as movement catches the corner of his eye, finally managing to catch Ren moving this time while he passes silently and toward a nearby door. He frowns slightly, uncertain until the obvious occurs to him and he drops his data pad to follow just as the door slides open, revealing the sleeping quarters just behind it.

It’s a similar chamber to any other, barring the bed in the middle and the adjoining refresher.

“What exactly are you doing?” Hux asks, watching Ren peel off his outer coat and drop it to the storage bench. He finds himself caught on the ludicrous display of Ren’s abdomen, then swallows tightly, looking to his face. “The bed is mine.”

“No,” Ren says, shoving off the suspenders, then reaching for his cropped undertunic.

“It is,” Hux says, raising his voice and narrowly keeping himself from admitting his only defense is that it’s because he said so first.

“I’m the Supreme Leader,” Ren says, squaring his shoulders and shuffling closer to the bed in a single step.

“And I’m sleeping on that bed,” Hux snaps, cutting Ren’s track off with his own step sideways, leaning in close and lowering his voice. He hadn’t even planned to sleep so soon, but he will not let Ren have the only bed. “The only way I’m not is if you find yourself _not in your right mind_ again.”

Ren stiffens from his calves up to his jaw, satisfyingly silenced – it seems the excuses and defenses that he feels shame for his actions may not be completely untrue.

“Is that understood?” Hux asks, trying to suppress an untimely prickle of delight; he hasn’t seen that chastened look since their last meeting with Snoke, and now it’s only _him_.

Ren drops his chin in what could either be a nod or more sullen behavior, eyes skating across the ground. “I’m still sleeping in it.”

“Fine,” Hux says, briefly curling one hand to a fist at his side; unfortunately, he must make some compromise, lest the bed be sliced to pieces in a temper. It’s likely he’ll not get a wink of sleep at the proximity, but he’s gotten accustomed to exhaustion as of late. “It’s certainly made for two.”

Ren’s jaw shifts with a rigid nod, then one arm goes over his head to abruptly finish pulling off his undertunic.

Hux steps away, feeling suddenly far, far too close and moving toward the refresher, refusing to listen to an awful little voice demanding he shamelessly gawk. He’s technically seen Ren naked before, in medical or in the fitness center, and he’s nothing special; certainly, not to the degree his damnable hindbrain seems to be asserting. He's not allowed to have such thoughts before... well, he's not going to be able to have them at all now his quarters are no longer his alone. 

He risks a peek backward just as he seals the refresher door, catching the muscle in Ren’s back move, and tries not to be too disappointed when the door cuts it off. He makes the mistake of looking to the mirror, catching an unwelcome flush, and reaches up to loosen his hair with the knowledge that the foreseeable future is going to be a new sort of torture.

~

Hux startles into consciousness to feel a hand wrapped firm around his arm, not too tight but certainly uncomfortable. He stares at the ceiling while his heart hammers in his chest, forcing himself to be still, and knowing he will need to tread very careful, lest he be a victim of instinct.

He looks down slowly, then grimaces, closing his eyes with an inhale. It’s not even a true hand, only the Force, invisible aside for the crumpling of a shirtsleeve. He isn’t sure if that is better or worse, and peeks further over to where Ren is curled tight on the other side of the bed. He watches the steady expand of muscle and bone, listens to near-silent breaths, then looks away with a shake of his head. He refocuses back on the ceiling, still hyperaware of the grip and knowing he’s going to let it stay.

He’s never slept in such a position before, with someone shifting, breathing, and practically on top of him by only being centimeters away. It’s evidently something he _can_ tolerate through, despite all excuses otherwise. He turns onto his side to look away, feeling the hand follow with the barest shift in its grip. He wonders if Ren is… _No_. He can’t think like that – not only is it result of a farce, but it’s weak. A single, ghostly hint of intimacy and he’s turning sentimental; pathetic.

He tries to convince himself that Ren is only holding on to keep tabs; one eye open, of a sort. It must be easier to make sure Hux isn’t about to assassinate him in the night when he’s got the Force keeping contact.

Hux should keep his distance. It’s not only dangerous to acknowledge this terrible, yielding_ thing_ at the back of his mind, but it will be more difficult to adapt if he loses… the cause of it. He forces his eyes close, attempting to clear his mind now he’s settled on a decision, only to open them again to scowl hard at the edge of the bed. It’s hardly the first time he’s been stuck awake ruminating in darkness about _Ren_, often unable to stop his mind from wheeling into senseless corners in the midst of sleepless nights, but he certainly can’t mitigate off the tension as he usually might, as he is only centimeters from the man. Although, perhaps he should risk it, now Ren has unexpectedly shown interest in the most bricklike manner.

If this situation even equates to showing interest, which it hasn’t seemed like so far. Ren is far too prone to going absurd lengths for simple difficulties, so this entire spousal ordeal may only be exactly what he excused it as: a reason to avoid handsy diplomats. He might even find someone _else_ to latch on to eventually, giving _them_ trays of odd foods while forcing his company upon them. They’ll likely be dull-witted and eager to please, as well, serving no purpose except to offer vapid opinions and stroke Ren’s delicate ego.

Hux shouldn’t even care; he certainly shouldn’t let his guard down around Ren and his impulsiveness. It doesn’t matter that it was somewhat pleasant to end a day with someone else in his quarters, someone who he has known for years, and has –

Ren abruptly shifts on the mattress, too considerably to be in sleep, and that bodiless grip dissipates at the same moment he starts mumbling, “ ‘ux?”

“Yes,” Hux responds tersely, feeling entirely caught. He’s not sure if he can take the embarrassment of listening to Ren start on about hearing _these_ thoughts.

Ren hums unintelligibly, going on for a few seconds in some evident attempt at actual speech, before he goes quiet again, as if he hadn’t mumbled at all. If he were eavesdropping, he doesn’t seem to have taken any of it as more than a momentary break in dreams.

Hux keeps still for a few seconds, confirming that Ren’s breath has evened out, then risks turning over to his other side to stare across Ren’s lax expression. He seems less like human chaos in sleep, his silence without the accompanying strain of his temperament. A peculiar urge surfaces, to reach out and to straighten a lock of hair that’s crossed over Ren’s nose. He almost tries for it, but in the end it’s probably better that his eyes drop closed before he can move, arm refusing to uncurl from its place against his side.


	2. Chapter 2

Hux rouses with a start at the shift of the mattress, keeping his eyes closed while bemused and reflexively still for a few moments, before he grasps that it’s an expected start to his shift. He waits until Ren disappears into the refresher to move, then slips out of the bed, feeling slightly irked to have woken second and consequently left waiting for a sonic while hoping that Ren doesn’t go through his entire routine.

He feels awkward, too tight within his skin, though this morning is little more different than if they’d been on a ground mission. He’s been on a few with Ren, and this is simply another one, of a sort, though he doesn’t expect any medals to be earned for putting up with Ren’s whims; he’d certainly have all of them already, if that were the case. He also expects less casualties, but such things are very difficult to predict.

Ren slinks from the refresher, moving past the bed without a word and out into the main quarters. He doesn’t seem to be any cleaner or put together, still wearing only loose trousers and his hair a mess around his head.

Hux stands with a frown, something sparking at the back of his mind, and barely takes a step before memories of his thoughts in the dark, suggestive and tender alike, burn through him. He takes a breath and looks backward with a sharp bite of his tongue – he cannot believe himself, entertaining those sorts of ideas. He startles at the telltale scraping of the protein mixer, then forces himself to keep toward the refresher; he needs to forget everything from the night before, just as he does on any shift after he gives in to that particular impulse. It is especially vital to do so now, seeing as Ren is only in the other room, not to mention he… He didn’t actually _do_ anything.

He reaches out to tap the mirror, trying to distract himself by bringing up the info panel for the – oh _hell_, only twenty minutes to the briefing. He’s woken not only second, but _very_ late; he must have forgotten to set the alarm for the room before going to sleep. He peels off his sleep shirt, knowing bitterly that he’ll have to be more vigilant to keep this from being the first oversight of many, as this charade plays out.

Ren is on the floor when Hux steps into the main room, legs curled under him and a protein bottle half empty next to him. It seems he’s readying to meditate, which is in direct conflict with every prior assertion of requiring _special_ accommodations to achieve.

Hux pulls his gloves on as he walks over, settling half a meter away to look down his nose at Ren. “At least sit in a chair.”

Ren looks up with narrowed eyes through lashes, jaw set. “It’s more effective to meditate when directly linked to the ground.”

Hux stares for a few seconds longer, then gives into a compulsion for hazardous levels of condescension, dropping to a crouch and lowering his voice with a sneer across his mouth. “We’re on a star ship.”

Ren keeps up his glare, then his mouth twitches, warning Hux to stand just before a noticeable push drives against his middle.

“The gala is at the end of this cycle,” Hux says, reaching for his coat and pulling it over his shoulders, settling into it with a short tug at the collar. “The shuttle leaves at 1700. I do not expect to be boarding alone, Supreme Leader.”

_‘Did you get fitted?’ _Ren asks, lowering his eyes to the ground and closing them with a lengthy inhale.

Hux feels his expression tense, briefly pressing his tongue hard against the backs of his teeth. “Could’ve done with a warning.”

Ren offers little more than a one-sided shrug, ostensibly settling into his meditation.

Hux glances briefly to the viewport behind Ren, eyeing the idle planet and its ship traffic, then turns on his heel for the door. He’ll have to be back to prepare, to struggle into an odd costume and ready for being a spectacle, so he can drag Ren down to the shuttle bay himself, if he must.

He can only hope for the interim that his shift will be more agreeable than it had yesterday. He even manages to hold that conviction for nearly ten paces down the hall, until he bitterly concedes that the manner the enlisted and troopers are glancing away from him now indicates it will only be worse. He’s accustomed to most lower ranks avoiding his eye, even enjoys it at certain moments, but this is a far stronger determination for evasion.

The news has certainly spread through to the entire First Order now, no announcement needed, though perhaps Ren sent a memo that Hux wasn’t privy… No, it was far more likely simple gossip. Hux _should_ have taken possession of this situation with a single, peremptory holo, but instead he had let himself be distracted by fruits and new clothing. He’s already being corrupted by the Republic bastard; he only wishes he had the energy anymore to care.

Hux opens the door to the briefing room with a stretch of his shoulders, adjusting his posture into a familiar stiffness. He nods when the officers stand from their seats, a cadre of engineers that he hadn’t been given a chance to speak to yesterday, then nearly startles backward at another sudden, synchronous movement.

Oh. They’re all bowing – that’s certainly… _different_.

“At ease,” Hux says, glancing only briefly down the length of the room in effort to look unaffected.

Captain Erudt steps forward with a briefer deferent dip of his head. “Sovereign Consort, thank you for joining us.”

Hux pauses to turn over the title as it sounds from Erudt, hearing it just slightly different than the borderline insult it had been from the disbelieving voices of those higher in command. “Grand Marshal is fine,” he says, suddenly considering his conversation with Ren from a different perspective. “Sovereign Consort is my civilian title, Captain.”

“Yes, sir,” Erudt says, taking a step back to open room at the head of holo table. He drops his head further, “Deepest apologies, Grand Marshal.”

Hux lifts his chin in a gesture toward the holo table, folding his hands together at his back while taking a step forward into the afforded space. “I believe we are gathered to discuss the research of the Starkiller voidstar. Petty Officer Sraas?”

Sraas emerges from the back, brandishing a data pad. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

Much of the shift goes similarly smooth, blemished only by Hux fielding more than one befuddled underling’s attempts to be more formal than the usual. The behavior is far less irksome than the skepticism he put up with his last shift, despite the snags, and even threatens to unseat his earlier confidence that being consort is going to be awful from beginning to ambiguous end. He’s all too quickly becoming content with how many of the lower officers and troopers are treating him, as if he’s revered like a Supreme Leader; they were dutiful before, fearful often, but this respect is of a different sort.

Or alternatively, which occurs to Hux only as he opens the door to his suite, they are simply scared of Ren. He wouldn’t be too surprised if that were it, though Ren has hardly ever shown a protective streak, let alone regarding how anyone might treat _Hux_. The simple addition of consort to his name has truly made everyone go mad, which is no more clear than now, as he feels himself growing frustrated at the sight of _cushions_ all over the floor.

“Ren!”

A muffled response, entirely surly, comes from the sleeping quarters.

Hux closes his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling slowly, then decides Ren, Supreme Leader or not, isn’t worth his patience. “Why is the bloody _sofa_ strewn across the floor?!”

A low tenor makes itself known between Hux’s ears. _‘I was meditating.’ _

“All _cycle_?” Hux asks, bending down and gathering up the cushions while gritting his teeth; he’s going to need a full new set of crowns at this rate.

“No,” Ren says, an audible voice rising from the open doorway, daring to be bemused. “I left after you.”

“And why not pick any of this up?” Hux demands, trying to straighten the sofa only to find that he can’t quite get it to look right.

Ren grunts apathetically, moving closer with a pair of heavy steps. “Droid will take care of it.”

Hux spares Ren a glare, only to find himself distractedly glancing over again for a second look. “You’re wearing gold powder.”

Ren nods shortly, closing his eyes to emphasize the light shimmer across his lids. It goes well with the black kohl at his waterline, the two-tone paint on his lips, and by extension the entire ensemble. He looks nothing like Hux has ever seen him, dissimilar to the bright, almost gaudy gild of the coronation regalia nor like his faded, torn mission robes, instead layered in finer black with mere edges of gold for his status.

He looks… more himself, in a manner entirely unfamiliar.

_Princely_, Hux realizes, and hurried dismisses the thought before it can be overheard should Ren choose now to be invasive. He coughs slightly, “I see you also agreed to the cloak.”

“It was a sound adjustment,” Ren says, his tone surprisingly ungrudging, as his hand slips down the hem. He looks back up, eyes placid and blinking slow, then glances out toward the planet through the wide viewport. “Though I doubt many will appreciate it here.”

Hux abandons the sofa to take a better look, seeing that it properly looks as he wanted, descending gradually into the gold rather than accosting with it. “It was only to keep you from uncomfortably trying to emulate Snoke.”

Ren presses his lips hard together.

“Which has its uses,” Hux allows, giving in and reaching out to straighten a folded lapel, laying it flat over the textured fabric of Ren’s robes. “But this gala is not to honor _his_ victories.”

“I’ve never even been here,” Ren grumbles, jaw shifting in a sullen grind of his teeth.

“Every First Order victory is yours, Ren,” Hux says, taking his hand from Ren’s shoulder, feeling color in his face when he realizes how long he’s been idly letting it rest across the swish fabric. “Just as every one of your victories is the First Order’s.”

It’s little more than another propaganda line, but Ren looks at him like it’s profound.

“The shuttle will be waiting,” Ren mutters, his eyes dropping suddenly to shift oddly across the floor.

“Ah,” Hux says, moving away in a back-step and feeling the heat worsen under his skin. “Yes.”

The refresher bears no evidence of Ren’s venture into cosmetics, only a black garment bag hanging from a convenient hook at the edge of the sonic. Hux stares at it for a pair of seconds, then reaches for the closure, drawing it down and frowning at the uniform inside. It’s as promised, nearly the same as his usual, if discounting how the Grand Marshal bands at the sleeve are gold.

He admittedly finds that less vexing than he should.

He sheds his proper uniform, carefully placing his blaster and data pad on the counter until he’s ready for them, then wastes a few minutes more with a quick sonic to clear sweat and pomade. He hesitates a moment longer, running his thumb over fabric, before grudgingly putting himself into the evident regalia of a consort, soon thankful to see the belt has been modified for a holster, though he’d prefer it to be on his thigh. He quickly realizes tailor had lied, or at least a bit, about how it would fit. The uniform is far lighter than he is used to, less padded at the chest and trousers closer around the inseam, and the lack of proper collar is an unwelcome surprise, though the cut of the jacket now makes sense.

He pulls the jacket on and draws his fingers down the exposure of his throat, then takes a step back to look at himself fully in the mirror, only to feel and see a grimace mar his expression. The head tailor had said they would match, but after seeing Ren… The effect in practice is going to be far more humiliating than Hux could have assumed. He’s in here wearing little more than a basic uniform with a bit of tacky gold trim and an unflattering cut to his figure, while Ren is out there wearing textured, elaborate robes and a shimmering cloak. The supreme twat persists in wearing a cowl that has been, more than once, singed with a light saber, and Hux is going to be the one looking tatty; what a terrible joke.

_‘Having trouble_?’ Ren says, voice impossibly nearby and most certainly through that invasive mindspeak.

“Do not do that,” Hux scolds, reaching for the door release and lifting his chin just as it slides open; naturally, Ren isn’t even visible. He exhales, reaching for his data pad and his blaster, and feeling foolish even before he calls out: “Are you still here?”

“Yes,” Ren says, from the other room, followed by a shuffling of steps that has him soon shadowing the doorway, a data pad in one hand and a ration bar in the other. “Oh. You agreed to the coat.”

Hux slips his data pad into said coat and narrows his eyes at the ration. “Are you _always_ eating?”

Ren looks down at the bar, then summarily takes another bite of it, ruining that earlier regal impression with every ungainly shift of his jaw. “I consume a lot of energy.”

Hux shakes his head, looking down to fasten his cuffs; more gold chain: a pair of lengths meant to be twined together. His dominant side proves trouble, as he awkwardly tries to crook the bars into their evident place, fingers fumbling and unused to the odd clasp, leading to moments of frustration and a grimace, as the damned things refuse to squeeze in place. He startles when an invading pair of hands grab at his wrist, feeling a scowl replace the grimace when Ren shoves the bars into place without any trouble.

“Not hard,” Ren mutters, turning Hux’s hand and causing the gold to catch in the dim light.

Hux finds himself momentarily caught on the sight of Ren’s thumb against his own, almost ludicrous in size by comparison, and quickly tugs his hand back. “Finish your meal. We have a shuttle waiting.”

“No ‘thank you’?” Ren says, retrieving the ration from wherever he’d thrown it, gracelessly shoveling the rest into his mouth.

Hux narrows an eye for a few seconds, then moves past when none of the insults he can think of are particularly cutting. He’ll wait until they’re on-surface, make a comment about mussed lips when Ren doesn’t have the opportunity of a nearby mirror to confirm that his black and gold paint is just fine.

The pilot of the shuttle makes wisely little comment when Hux and Ren arrive, simply offering a deferring tip of their head and taking a step back to make room for them to proceed him up the ramp. The shuttle seems to have already seen a few flights down, if judging by an askew seat that Hux makes a point to straighten once he’s strapped into it. He’s never been on the surface of Taanab, but the atmosphere is broken with little trouble and it seems an agreeable surface pressure when he steps out of the shuttle, where even the weather is pleasant on top of the embassy building.

He peeks briefly to Ren when falls in step beside him, but otherwise keeps his head high while marching in toward the trooper-guarded lift, comforted some that this feels as if this is simply an extension of their usual habit. The troopers do bow just before the lift opens, a marked difference to the usual, and Hux only just manages to repress a smirk at the sight; he has little idea how Ren might feel about it, aside for entitled, but he’s hardly going to let Ren call him bigheaded.

Hux pulls his blaster on the lift with a brief check toward the power pack, mostly by habit, then slips it beneath the jacket to settle on his waist. It’s not quite a mission, and the power shift to the First Order was relatively painless, but anything is possible.

Ren shifts on his feet with a noticeable, slightly worrying waver of the lift. “Forget to tell me something?”

“Everyone has a weapon,” Hux says, idly gesturing to the holster tucked in at Ren’s hip, somewhat hidden but clearly heavy with the weight of a hilt. “Including you.”

“If I have my weapon, you don’t need yours,” Ren says, confident, despite the drivel.

Hux rolls his eyes toward the front of the lift, raising his chin as he feels it begin to slow at gala floor. “I’ll make that judgment myself.”

The lift opens to a dark, shiny floor and a squad of unarmored troopers who usher Hux and Ren in through a long hall with a deferring crooks of their heads. It’s a dull roar of noise within the ballroom proper, supplemented by a thin strain of music from the edges, and Hux reaches out to stop Ren’s stomping at the sight of a protocol droid waiting to announce them.

“Supreme Leader Kylo Ren and Grand Marshal Armitage Hux,” the droid booms, its voice echoing into every corner and very near migraine-inducing, then abruptly dropping in tone for the next word with a stern finality. “Presiding.”

The party pauses for a tense moment, soon followed by stares and polite clapping, then muttered whispers. It seems they’ve arrived a bit late for any real fanfare, though more than a few First Order personnel look over with apparent worry for protocol. Hux decides promptly to forgive it. He’s got more important people to talk to, and protocol doesn’t formally exist for this sort of mixed event between figurehead subjects, personnel, and the Supreme Leader himself. Yet.

“It forgot to say consort,” Ren mutters, naturally choosing the most senseless thing to be surly about.

“Droids don’t forget,” Hux says, glancing across the crowd and catching on a few of the brighter dressed guests – non-First Order. He’ll have to speak to some of them first, make a good impression to keep them docile. “It’s likely it never got a communication. Did you send one through proper broadcast channels?”

“I didn’t make it a secret when I submitted the form,” Ren says, speaking snidely as if that should matter, but it does reveal he’d _purposefully_ used a bit of social manipulation to get this news spread without Hux noticing; any other circumstances, it might be admirable to go with frustrating.

Hux makes a point to gesture patronizingly at the entrance, where the source of Ren’s irritation waits patiently for the next guest. “Do you believe civilians are privy the First Order’s _gossip_, Supreme Leader?”

Ren glares, mouth pinching into a pale moue.

“Ruminate on the answer if you must, but don’t hurt yourself,” Hux says, turning on his heel with a short huff through his nose. He takes a step further into the room, trying to find again one of the tall leaders in their bright clothing, or perhaps the –

“Where are you going?”

Hux looks back, then raises a brow at the hand lifted towards his back, not quite reaching for him. “Did you expect me to stand next to you the entire time?”

The manner Ren cocks his head is a known affirmative.

“And _why_?” Hux asks, peering quickly over a wide shoulder when he notices a few heads turn in their direction; wonderful, they’re already making the wrong sort of spectacle.

“What else are you going to do?” Ren sneers defensively, dropping his hand and briefly straightening his posture before ultimately returning to his slouch while leaning rudely into Hux’s face. “Mingle with your fellow sycophants?”

“Yes,” Hux says simply, because as much as he does hate it, he has to; he’s always had to, and Ren taking him as _consort_ has made it even more of a requirement.

Ren doesn’t seem to know what to do without an argument, mouth pursing and eyes slipping to the side in a glower.

“Go to a lounge,” Hux says, gesturing toward a set of doors on the other end of the ballroom, out toward the balconies – he’s not sure it actually leads anywhere, but that will only be an issue if it doesn’t.

Ren shakes his head once, one of his hands curling into a fist at his side. “Someone would find me.”

“You’re not being hunted, Ren,” Hux says, raising an incredulous eyebrow; it’s going to become some sort of terrible project, he realizes, acclimating Ren from enforcer to diplomat. He must have _some_ talent for it within him, considering his pedigree. “Do what you’d like.”

He turns around again, taking a few more steps, only to pause when feeling the unmistakable sensation of someone moving in tandem with him. He narrows his eyes sideways, “Except that.”

Ren puffs up with visible offense. _“_Why?”

Hux glances briefly around them before leaning in close while speaking through gritted teeth. “Because I cannot stand beside you like a nanny for the entire _night_. Nothing will get done.”

Ren rears backward, sending a narrow-eyed look around the hall, then landing back on Hux while his jaw clenched tight. _‘What if they want to speak about –‘ _he shrugs, stiff to the degree that it’s almost like his bones audibly creak. ‘_About you being consort.’_

_‘They won’t,’_ Hux responds, hoping that he manages to come off as dismissive despite the entire lack of voice. _‘The droid didn’t even announce it._’

Ren’s expression promptly becomes simultaneously thunderous and sullen, his eyes dark and fuming, but his mouth a surly pout. _‘They might. Some must have heard.’_

_‘Perhaps,’ _Hux allows, as he doesn’t need to be mind reader to know that is likely what the whispers around their arrival were about, but he’s already wasted enough time coddling Ren. _‘We can deal with that when it arises.’_

“Ah, Supreme Leader! Grand Marshal!” A lilting voice interrupts, humbled but urgent, soon joined by a figure of a twi’lek with twice than the usual amount of lekku. They bow deeply, focused firmly at the floor for uncomfortable seconds while still speaking in that odd tone. “Sincerest apologies for the boldness, my lords, but I’ve been keen to speak to you – I have heard tell of First Order interest in Force relics.”

Ren gives the interrupter a look like an insult, his eyes dragging up and down before looking at Hux like this was deliberate.

Hux feels a twitch at the corner of his mouth, then glances to make eye contact with the twi’lek, evidently fearless and likely some kind of noble; he’s hopes Ren doesn’t part their entitled head from their shoulders. “The Supreme Leader is certainly concerned with such things; however, I am not. I leave you to it.”

‘_Hux_!’

Hux ignores the whine, quickly escaping Ren by way of the unwelcome guest. It will do him some good to suffer a few seconds of social niceties – if they’re lucky, the twi’lek will even have something useful to say.

He glances backward once he’s well into the middle of the ballroom, reaching out to take a flute from a passing droid with a short nod, only to instead find a truly unwelcome guest between him and Ren’s conversation: Daari Serase. He does his best to peek around him, ignoring a short, reflexive wrench in his gut. He’s over thirty, an undisputed, preeminent leader of the First Order, yet still his mind finds time to overreact about… _aggravating_ memories.

Daari unfortunately notices Hux noticing him, and starts winding through the crowd with a familiar, self-superior look splitting across his face.

“Captain Serase,” Hux greets, speaking neutrally, though it pains him, and deciding to be genial.

For all the good it’s ever done.

“Consort Hux,” Daari says, already rudely gesturing between them with closed finger and thumb, as if tracing the words with a stylus. “Isn’t that quaint? I had no idea you were still finding ways to get on your knees for command.”

Hux feels the blaster on his hip heavier than ever, but it would be immature to draw it. He’s been fielding this particular variety of taunt for too long to snap now, not when it risks Ren using the loss of temper to mock him into eternity. He’s never really understood the habit of morons to spread base lies against the more intelligent moving above them, but then again, they’ve got to have something to do down there in the muck.

“He is a finer specimen than most,” Daari says, turning to tactlessly look up and down Ren with a particular glint in his eye; the sort that makes Hux add another tally for reasons to suffer a grisly accident. “A sense to try and cover up his faults. A shame it makes him look fragile.”

“You should speak of the Supreme Leader with more respect,” Hux says, keeping his voice idle, easier to keep Daari from inferring any erroneous, or accurate, assumptions, though he does feel a twinge of honest irritation that Daari’s invectives have little to do with Ren’s personality or leadership. A bit predictable, perhaps, as Daari and his curs took great amusement in mocking Hux’s height and weight when he was younger.

Hux makes a point to lift his chin some at thought, nearly able to look straight over Daari’s non-regulation hair. He still remembers the day he noticed – he had been barely fifteen, anxious about any one of the usual evaluations, and his entire week had been made better.

“Alas, your mistake, Armitage,” Daari continues, somewhat heeding the warning, though his voice only gets more snide when his attention refocuses on Hux. “Is trying to tie him down. It will only make you look foolish when he finds someone more _satisfying _to take your place. But maybe you’ll get to keep the title.”

“Are you really going to try and snake your way into his bed?” Hux feels a grudging humor rise amongst the usual fantasies of late retribution. It seems that Ren’s general disposition is really that much of a mystery – he’d much sooner gut Daari than sleep with him. “I wish you luck.”

Daari’s expression visibly curdles, lip twisting into a sneer. “Do you seriously think he cares for you that much?”

“I would never presume,” Hux says, though he could very least say Ren does by comparison, as Daari wasn’t the one quietly signed into a marriage. “I only know that he’s simply not the type.”

“I’m sure he’d take great pains to hide if he were, Armie,” Daari says, still far too confident, leaning forward slightly with a glance shortly down Hux’s chest to indicate an evident weakness. “Wouldn’t want to break that glass heart.”

Hux blinks slowly, realizing that he might be rid of Daari without having to lift a finger. “You are an incurably stupid man.”

“We’ll see,” Daari says, voice lowered to little more than a snarl; he’s never liked it when his bullying goes nowhere.

Hux lifts his drink to take a sip while watching Daari cross the room. He should probably do something to warn Ren… But Ren brought this sort of thing upon himself.

“Grand Marshal.”

Hux looks over swiftly to find the monarch and new premier of Taanab, Tril Estare. He nods in greeting, relieved that one of the people he has wanted to speak to instead found him; he only hopes she’s not come to declare he owes her for committing her system to galactic order. “Lady Estare.”

“Lovely to see you,” Estare says, taking another step forward, her presumed aide peeling off to walk toward the bar. She gestures downward with a softly curled hand, as an affable smile crosses her aged face. “That uniform is stunning. I had no idea you bore such a graceful figure.”

“Thank you,” Hux says, wondering exactly how stiff his voice sounds, because it certainly feels like durasteel.

“And the Supreme Leader, as well,” Estare continues, though she doesn’t even look in Ren’s direction, as Daari had, instead her eyes staying steady on Hux. “Quite the pair, you two. I had no idea.”

“It has little to do with the greater goal,” Hux says, repeating his excuse of yesterday; he wonders what Ren might say, then realizes swiftly that he’d probably blame it on _him_. 

Estare dips her head in a nod, then opens her clutch with a small hum. “All the same, I had something expedited when I heard the rumor. A tradition to share, as well as a gift.”

Hux looks down and is bemused to see a singular miniature cigarra in her hand, wrapped with burgundy leaf and bearing a gold label, all wrapped tight in shrink. He wonders how valuable it must be for a single one to be so richly treated.

Estare turns it in her hand, pointing out an elaborate decal with her painted thumb. “Pure tabacc from a small, historic field in the Southern Hemisphere,” she says, rolling it between her fingers, then tuts in that particular manner that the aged do when they’re about to be maudlin. “I shared a similar one with my late husband at our reception.”

Hux glances to her face and back to the cigarra, eventually reaching out to take it. The sentiment is foolish, but… he’s curious enough about the quality, and refusing it might cause some loss of the esteem for the First Order. He turns it in his hand, then slips it into his breast pocket alongside his data pad. “Thank you, my Lady. I am sure the Supreme Leader will enjoy it, as well.”

Estare oddly waves him off, a curious smile pinching her wrinkled face. “It is not the enjoying; it is the sharing.”

“Ah,” Hux says, half tempted to offer the dry truth that Ren and he only share by necessity, and hope it’s taken as a joke, only to startle when he hears a voice like a whisper just behind his back.

_‘Come dismiss this fool.’ _

Hux carefully glances from the corner of his eye to catch Ren still across the room, if a little closer to the wall, now bearing a tremendous glower; Daari is stood just in front of him, seemingly oblivious to the expression._ ‘My role here is not to shoo away hopeful adulterers.’_

“However did you catch him?” Estare asks, thankfully ignorant of the distraction. “He seems so… _aloof_.”

“He pursued me,” Hux says, because it’s technically true, though one might argue none of this would have happened if he hadn’t followed Ren down halls arguing against a number of stupidly risky missions in their first year of meeting. He’s certainly cursing that judgment now while trying to keep up two conversations, and both of them nonsense.

“Oh!” Estare intones, far too surprised, though that is soon covered by a mildly off-putting attempt at a knowing smile. “You’re very dashing yourself – does he like your speeches?”

‘_Yes_,’ Ren responds belatedly, an uncanny hand tugging intently at Hux’s jacket, ‘_It is.’ _

‘_Bloody Sith Hells,’_ Hux responds, doing his best to keep perfectly still just as another eerie shove hits the small of his spine. _‘Just walk over here on your own. It’ll make a better statement.’_

He does his best to ignore the bemused look Estare is giving him – clearly, she’s finally noticing something off – and opens his mouth with a stiff attempt at a smile. “We haven’t discussed it.”

“They’re ever so good,” Estare says, actually touching him across the forearm with her gesturing hand. She gives him a look like this is meant to mean something, then offers a deep nod. “You’ve such a fiery presence, Consort Hux.”

Fiery; how original of her.

‘_It would be no different than you interrupting,” _Ren insists, an entirely odd sensation of foreign emotion behind the words, nearly comprehensible, yet just out of reach – anger, perhaps? Surliness?

_‘He’ll see you walk here on your own, clearly,_’ Hux explains with his own best attempt at a mental sneer. ‘_If I go over there, I’m looking a resentful nag_.’

_‘You are,’ _Ren snaps, effectively erasing any pity that might have been felt for his situation.

Hux further turns his back, pretending to consider the hors d’oeuvres on a passing tray. “I presume the catering was all from on-planet groves as well?”

“Oh yes,” Estare says, leaning forward and dropping her hands to fold at her front, proceeding into a nod that seems to almost be a curtsy. “We pride ourselves on our agriculture. It makes us useful.”

Hux barely represses a smirk. “It certainly does.”

‘_Can’t you_ – ?’ Ren manages to portray a frustrated sigh over mental link; it might be impressive if Hux knew how any of it worked. ‘_I’ve been ignoring him for minutes, yet he **persists**, Hux.’_

Hux reaches out and takes one of the canapes, uncertain he’ll eat it, but it’s good for conversation. ‘_Hardly my problem.’_

“Oh, is that the Baron of Tralus?” Estare says abruptly, her easy, mindful tone suddenly winding up tight. She gestures a hasty farewell that can be vaguely recognized as traditional, a cupping of her hand from her breast down to her naval. “It was lovely speaking to you, Grand Marshal. I hope to do so again.”

“You, as well,” Hux says, blinking after her and now left holding a bit of strange cracker in his hand that he has zero desire to eat. He glances in Ren’s direction again, something tickling at the back of his mind, and finds him already halfway through storming over through the crowd. Ah.

He manages to keep his composure when a broad hand slides across his back, slipping under the chains and making them jingle, which he’s sure is purposeful once he sees Daari startle with a visible twitch. He manages to halt his own jerking elbow, hoping it looks more natural than it feels, and ignores a flush of heat bursting across the backs of his ears.

“Captain, here,” Ren says, his tone low and containing the barest amount of courteous interest. “Grand Marshal Hux is more versed on the specifications of the _Dénouement_. My specialization is not in engineering.”  
  
Daari looks caught, mouth half open, as he seems to gather his wits in a somehow slower than usual manner. He lifts a tumbler of presumed alcohol, blue and iced, taking an apparent gulp. “I see.”

The silence settles uneasy, as if they’ve found their own little slipspace of discomfort, and Hux takes the opportunity to shove the canape at Ren. Ren stares at it for a pair of seconds, then slowly takes it, eating it with a single bite and an oddly defiant look.

Hux rolls his eyes and looks back to Daari with his best polite smile, knowing that the venom will be seen underneath. “You’re in finances, aren’t you, Daari? What an odd topic for you to breach. It seems well above your head.”

Daari doesn’t respond for a beat, staring downward near Hux’s now-empty hand, and practically flinches when he realizes he’s been addressed. “I have my curiosities.”

“Well,” Hux says, straightening his posture only to become suddenly very aware of how much of his back is covered by a single open palm. He tries to forget it while he raises a brow, instead hoping that Daari sees he’s smug. “What were you asking about?”

“The state of our suite,” Ren provides, in the least convincing sotto voce since he reduced his mask to splinters. “The comforts of it. My… _Sovereign_ _Consort_.”

“I see,” Hux says carefully, hoping Ren’s laughably stiff delivery of the new title doesn’t incidentally bolster Daari’s already bold behavior. He clears his throat, offering his attention with a gesture of his drink. “In what manner?”

Daari stares at him a few seconds, then glances to Ren, who promptly sees to _dig_ his oversized, somewhat cold nose in Hux’s jacket collar. The resulting wilted posture is admittedly satisfactory, as is the disappointment stretching lovely across Daari’s face. “Your… refresher. I’ve heard it holds its own water purification system.”

“It does, as does every set of quarters on every ship. In most of the galaxy,” Hux says, hoping he sounds more superior than awkward. He’s been close to Ren, of course, but never had him plastered to his back like a mynock. “Would you like me to explain how it works? In detail.”

Daari is silent a few seconds, then shakes his head. “That’s quite fine. I was simply curious.”

“I’m sure,” Hux says flatly, lifting his chin slightly while feeling a smirk twitch across his lip; he can’t hide everything. “Was that all?”

Daari stares for a few seconds longer, then clears his throat and takes a step back. Then another. He turns on his heel the next, visibly fleeing, and nearly runs into a couple that immediately hiss insults in their reptilian tongue.

“Boring conversation,” Ren mumbles, voice almost muffled entirely by Hux’s jacket.

“You brought it up, darling,” Hux says, only to curse his errant tongue. He can’t even blame the wine – he’s been nursing the same luke-warm flute for an hour.

Ren thankfully doesn’t seem to notice, instead proceeding into a grumble, while his hand flexes at Hux’s spine with plain annoyance. “He knew I’d taken you as Consort, yet approached me anyway.”

“Obviously,” Hux says, not quite looking back; he’s unsure about the fact Ren hasn’t let him go, as the scant space between them grows warm… He refuses to let that thought go further. “It’s _exactly_ why you should have consulted me before doing this.”

Ren offers a doubting scoff, spare against Hux’s skin. “How?”

“They _know_ me, Ren,” Hux snaps, pulling away and trying hard not to feel chilled by the movement. “I know it’s new to you, but I’ve been forced to attend all sorts of pointless functions my entire life, yet I’ve certainly never had the trouble of being approached even for a _dance_.” He shakes his head, gesturing tightly at the crowd around them and hearing his voice get shriller without his agreement. “You would have been far more successful in dissuading these courters if you had thought for a single moment on who might do it best, rather than settling on who it was easiest for you to trick.”

The shock on Ren’s face is less satisfying than should be, instead making it feel like a sort of awful secret has been shared.

“Simply,” Hux says, taking a breath while attempting to keep the mortified heat from spreading further under his collar; the sniping with Daari has clearly affected him more than he realized. He tries to remember how the lower officers and troopers had treated him, like this all truly _meant_ something, but it does little to banish the churning from his gut. “Taking me as a consort is no more discouraging than if you had declared yourself married to your astromech.”

Ren starts chewing on his lip, and when he speaks, his voice has dropped to an odd tenor. “You said Yustes believed it romantic.”

“Yes, but he’s a fool,” Hux says, with some disbelief that Ren would even mention that tripe.

Ren’s expression goes thunderous for a moment, and suddenly Hux’s forgotten drink is all over his shirtfront.

“Nine hells, Ren,” Hux hisses, looking down in dismay, wine beading off and darkening the black even deeper, using his thumb to wipe away a few droplets that splashed their way through to the narrow strip of exposed skin along his collarbone. “You’re bloody lucky that this is pale wine!”

Ren actually looks distraught for a beat, mouth dropping open in an unfortunate gape. He takes a half-step back, then gestures again, wider this time with a flat hand at his side.

Hux braces quickly, only to end up flinching in a different manner when the entire _room_ gasps and yelps in various degrees of surprise. He finds his attention drawn specifically to a togruta closest to his left, watching them tremble and stare at the floor they’ve fallen to in askance, then look ludicrously into the flute still clutched in their hand.

“There,” Ren snarls, crossing one arm over his chest in a distinct, almost endearing nervousness.

“That doesn’t make it better,” Hux says, ignoring the impulse to peek again to the other guests still stumbling hurriedly back to their feet. He can feel amusement threatening to show across his face, and desperately wants to look back and see if Daari is covered in that disgusting Chandrilan whisky. “Apologize.”

“To everyone?” Ren asks, his voice going low and incredulous.

Hux takes a scoffing breath, mortified to realize it’s nearly a laugh. “To _me_.”

Ren visibly chews at the inside of his lip, mouth twisting, then glances to the side with an explosive sigh. ‘_I’m **sorry**_.’

“Thank you,” Hux says, hoping he doesn’t sound too shocked.

“Come,” Ren says, reaching out and wrapping his hand easily around Hux’s wrist to tug.

Hux resists for a requisite moment, then allows himself to be pulled, bemused as he soon finds himself in the hall he’d earlier pointed out. He relaxes slightly, watching Ren hover around doors and curtains, dodging other attendants in his wake. He hums low when finally finds an empty room, leading to a stone balcony that overlooks the embassy street. He leans over to glance down the side of the building, looking past mid-air speeders and seeing pedestrians on the street below as little more than pinpricks in the distance.

“Stand still,” Ren says, moving in front of Hux and blocking the view.

Hux shifts his eyes up to glare, only to find Ren preoccupied with something and barely looking at him. “Excuse me?”

‘_Quiet_.’

Hux scowls at being shushed, then glances down with a start when something pulls at his chest. He opens his mouth to tell Ren off, only to get caught watching in shock as a fine mist pulls from his uniform, turning to droplets, then into a single globule, hovering over Ren’s open hand.

“I couldn’t get all of it,” Ren says, toying with the wine in his hand, spinning it idly in circles. “Some has already dried.

“Ah,” Hux intones, breathing in slowly, slightly taken aback by the lazy show of power. He doesn’t know why it’s significant from the recently revealed habit of speaking into his mind, but suspects it’s the simple addition of a physical element. “A shame.”

“I do the same to get blood from my clothes,” Ren says, spinning it now and likely just to show off. “Or sewage. Sweat.”

Hux presses his mouth flat. “Lovely.”

He watches as Ren reaches out, tilting his hand and holding the globule out over the balcony. He peeks sideways, catching Ren’s eye, then offers an agreeable tilt of his head when Ren nods toward the hand. He leans in some when the wine drops, watching it disappear down the many levels of the building to the lower street.

“It didn’t hit anyone,” Ren says a beat later, audibly disappointed in his failure.

Hux tuts, admittedly sharing the sentiment.

Ren turns and leans against the stone railing, exhaling a heaving sigh. “Aren’t you going to run off and get more wine, worried someone might see us together and accuse you of being _nanny_?”

“No,” Hux says, ignoring the hostile tone and reaching into his breast pocket for the premier’s little cigarra. “I’ve other vices to indulge.”

Ren blinks widely, his eyes dropping when Hux begins unwrapping the soft and expensive, if ultimately wasteful wrappings. He shifts on the railing, straightening when Hux pulls his wrist blade to cut the cap, then leans forward as if to actually study it. “How will you light it?”

“Does the Force not preside over mere fire?” Hux asks, lifting the cigarra and gesturing with a flick of his thumb. He saw Snoke use lightning, so knows it must be possible through that, but mostly he hopes Ren doesn’t pull his saber.

Ren hesitates a few seconds, expression shifting, before he moves closer with a lifted hand, curling it slightly around the cigarra.

Hux raises an eyebrow when nothing happens for moments, glancing between Ren’s concentrated frown and the unlit cigarra. He sighs quietly, pulling his hand back, only to startle when the tip practically sparks into a smolder.

Ren grunts quietly, but his self-satisfaction is obvious in the tilt of his lips.

Hux shakes his head slightly, toying with the idea of commenting about near-impotency, but instead brings the cigarra to his lips. It’s maybe the third time he’s had real tabacc, and he puffs it carefully, letting the smoke settle against his tongue; the ship-accepted vaporizers are just not the same.

“Where did you get it?” Ren asks, shifting back and down with a slump into a nearby bench, evidently settling in to laze.

“The new premier,” Hux says, turning his hand to show off the evident seal of _their_ new field. “A gift for the First Order.”

Ren is silent a few moments, then clears his throat. “Seems more like it was for you.”

Hux offers the cigarra, half taunting with a thought toward the evident custom, only to find himself the fool when Ren actually takes it. He becomes even more irked when the supposed ascetic knight takes a successful pull without so much as a cough, ostensibly savoring it proper. “I wasn’t aware you smoked.”

“The Supreme Leader is dead,” Ren says simply, blowing a stream of blue-tinged smoke into the open air.

Hux is startled to hear a laugh escape his own open mouth, sharp and almost barking, then is immediately embarrassed to find the sound unbearable. He sighs on his next breath, reaching down to pluck the cigarra from Ren’s stiff fingers; he seems to have frozen in place, leaving the rolled tabacc slowly, wastefully burning to ash.

“Long live the next,” Hux says, drawing his voice out flat, though surprised to realize he’s not lying. He taps the smoldering butt over the railing, then lifts it to his lips, relishing in the rolling hiss of burning leaf.

“Does that have more than tabacc?” Ren asks, speaking slowly and gaze shifting between Hux and the cigarra.

“Not that I can taste,” Hux says, feeling charitable enough to direct the smoke from the corner of his mouth, rather than into Ren’s upturned face. “Tragically. Are you worried I’m trying to poison you?”

Ren narrows his eyes. “I _wasn’t_.”

“I could hardly do it now, I’d be the first suspect,” Hux says, dropping his voice some and trying to sound dismissive, rather than distracted – the real worry of it, now he realizes, is that _he_ hadn’t thought about the _premier_ trying to poison them.

Ren leans back on the bench, settling an arm to lay across the stone railing. “That’s always been true.”

“Maybe so,” Hux allows, pulling himself from his thoughts, however reluctantly; it’s moot now, as they’ll be dead either way with most of it up in smoke between them by this point. He looks back to Ren with a quick twitch of his wrist, gesturing at the otherwise empty balcony. “But before, I didn’t have such full, _private_ access to you.”

“You did,” Ren argues again, glancing down toward the speeders in their lanes, an odd set to his mouth. “Perhaps you simply didn’t realize it.”

Hux hums shortly, carefully taking the last pull of the cigarra – it burned quickly, hopefully only some consequence of the pure leaf. “I took the first taste, either way.”

Ren grunts his agreement, followed by his foot kicking out against the stone ground and a noisy shift against the bench.

“Why did you do it?” Hux asks quietly, dropping his hand to stub out the cigarra over the edge of the balcony, then flicking it off the edge.

Ren stares for a long moment, then exhales softly; he seems to know what Hux is asking. “I could have chosen anyone, you said.”

Hux nods slightly, readying himself for more ludicrous reasoning, or a worse scenario: having to hear Ren lament on some person he couldn’t have.

Ren gestures with an open hand on the barrier. “So I did.”

Hux finds himself going still, badly hiding the jolt of shock that goes up his spine – trust Ren to be unpredictable. He swallows, carefully, “That’s dangerously close to self-destructive.”

Ren offers little more than a one-sided shrug.

Hux glances over Ren’s face, perturbed to find it empty of sarcasm. “It also seems,” he says, nervously wringing one hand and forcing it to his side, just behind the edge of his coat. “You’ve not been entirely forthcoming with your motivations.”

“I didn’t expect anything else,” Ren denies, his eyes dark and angry for a moment, before his head drops, focused anywhere and everywhere on the ground. “Just… this. Not dealing with _them_. Not being alone.”

Hux feels something just behind his sternum tighten, startled at the apparent sincerity. He doesn’t particularly appreciate the feeling, what might be pity. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Ren snaps, his voice pitching with some mix of sarcasm and defeatism, while both of his hands tighten into fists, one at his side and the other still on the balcony. “Perhaps because all you would do is mock and rebuff me?”

“Don’t be so certain,” Hux says, daring to take a step forward, closer to Ren, and gently nudging his knee between already splayed thighs. “I get curious about things, and you’re hardly ugly.”

Ren grunts some manner of assent, peeking through his lashes to catch Hux’s new position. “Only on the inside.”

“A touch melodramatic,” Hux adds, reaching out hesitantly to tap at the bottom of Ren’s chin, forcing him to look up proper. “How long?”

Ren curls his lips against his teeth, glancing at corners with a certain satisfying unease. “I didn’t… grasp it. Until the Coronation.”

“Those desperate allies giving you ideas?” Hux muses, slightly offended at the notion. “You may be disappointed.”

“No,” Ren says, shaking his head and smoothly escaping Hux’s grasp, looking down to the street below them. He’s quiet long enough that it’s almost as if he’s decided he’d rather not say, then looks back up to Hux, his demure attitude swiftly turning accusatory. “You disappeared. I didn’t see you again until the day later.”

Hux tuts, dropping his hand with a sigh. “I had work.”

“I only went through with any of it because you wanted me to,” Ren says, angry and snarling, though his expression is breaking with something Hux is hesitant to name. “Insisted it would legitimize my position.”

“Ren – ” Hux starts, only to nearly bite into his tongue when Ren abruptly stands, moving in too close, eyes darting back and forth between Hux’s with a dangerous lack of pride. He doesn’t say anything, so Hux reaches up again to hesitantly slides his knuckles up along the line of Ren’s cheek, lingering only another moment before he moves forward with a low tilt of his head, taking Ren’s lips with his own.

He finds little resistance, aside for answering pressure, and wonders some what it would be like if Ren’s lips weren’t dry with paint. He startles as a broad hand grabs his arm, consequently opening his mouth, and groans when Ren takes that as sign to add his tongue, slipping in to tease Hux’s out with unexpected finesse. He slides his other hand around Ren’s broad back, tightening his fingers in soft robes and pulling him in closer, already feeling pleasant heat burn and prickle underneath his skin.

Ren pulls back first, breaking away with a turn of his head and a deep breath, though he doesn’t let up his grip. “I expected you there with me,” he mutters, opening his eyes and effectively fixing Hux in a stare. “I didn’t want to celebrate my greatest triumph with a bunch of sycophants vying for my favor. Trying to stand in a place I – I had only just realized I wanted you in.”

“You’ve called me a sycophant more than once,” Hux reminds, slowly dragging his thumb sideways down a narrow jaw. “Tonight, even.”

Ren outright rolls his eyes, a developing frown making him sullen. “You’d never seek my favor.”

Hux hums low, tilting his head to share breath for a beat, then suffers a peculiar alarm and forces himself to shift backward before he can indulge the impulse to take another kiss. “I hardly need to.”

Ren stares back for a few silent seconds, then looks way with an explosive sigh.

Hux feels the air cool just with that gesture, suppressing a shudder while a chill seeps inside the thin fabric of his costume. He longs for another cigarra, as nerves at the back of his mind burst and scatter with little reason.

“You’re… worried?” Ren says, his voice thoughtful and words utterly mortifying, glancing back to Hux with the familiarly cocked head of an interrogation session. “No, is it _anxious_? I’ve never felt you like – ”

“It’s amazing how some new robes and gilded makeup can hide what you are,” Hux interrupts with a snap, grimacing and dropping his shoulder against the wall, feeling _whatever_ emotion Ren is reading off him only get worse. He pauses for a moment while watching the twitching frown turn to a pout across Ren’s mouth, as if he’s surprised that Hux is affronted. “Is this your new mask?”

Ren takes a step forward, reclaiming the growing space between them with slightly less tender emotion than earlier. “You may mock me, but you’re simply _rotten and insecure.”_

“I don’t remember giving you permission to dissect me,” Hux snaps, making a point to look Ren straight in the eye with a glare. “And I certainly don’t appreciate you ripping thoughts from me like one of your prisoners.”

“I’m not,” Ren says, recoiling some while his expression creases with a pout. “It’s far more painful for them. They don’t trust me.”

“I do not trust you,” Hux says, hearing his voice pitch high, incredulous as he is at the accusation.

Ren leans forward slightly, ‘_Yet clearly you do._’

“Oh, bugger off,” Hux snaps, realizing late he was a bit too loud, as he listens to his voice mockingly echo back at him from the duracrete brick of the opposite building. “Little more than by exposure.”

Ren lets the silence settle only barely, the weight of his hand soon briefly at Hux’s arm. “I would like to kiss you again.”

“Why?” Hux asks flatly, feeling a sneer at his mouth.

Ren blinks a few times, then narrows his eyes, and it becomes glaringly obvious he’s trying to glean the meaning of the question without peeking into Hux’s mind. He can be so blind to the obvious.

“You said moments ago I was rotten,” Hux says, rolling the resh hard and lifting both brows to emphasize the word. “Not particularly appealing, that.”

Ren tips his head, a twitch of a smirk across his mouth. “I’m used to it.”

“Flattering,” Hux says flatly, raising a hand from his side and poking two fingers into Ren’s chest to force him back a half-step.

“If you need flattery, I appreciate the way you look right now,” Ren says, adopting a ridiculous tone and dropping his head with an evident look down Hux’s body, then reaching out to grab Hux’s wrist with a hand that encircles it easily. “How your waist is narrow and your legs are long, your neck – ”

“Alright,” Hux interrupts sharply, trying to pull his arm away from a grip that suddenly feels like a burn spreading up every centimeter of his skin. “You stop that.”

Ren doesn’t let go, but he does quiet down, now only staring hard in that awful manner that seems to burrow. “The way you grabbed my face earlier,” he says, brow furrowing while he moves to replace Hux’s hand just where it was over his cheek and jaw. “You seemed more assured.”

“I wasn’t thinking!” Hux admits with a snap, immediately regretting it ten times over.

“Ah,” Ren intones, proceeding to lean far too heavily into Hux for a man of his size.

Hux stares at Ren a few seconds more, pulled in so many directions: fight, flight… _Fold_. “Stop making that face,” he says, giving in to the whim and tightening his hand along that crooked jaw. “And stop reading my mind.”

“I’m not,” Ren says, pressing into the grip, said face closer and closer until barely centimeters away. “You’re paranoid.”

“You persist in telling me my own emotions,” Hux says firmly, narrowing his eyes just slightly to scold. “Both _incredibly_ rude and proving you a liar.”

Ren blinks rapidly and actually seems abashed, even surprised, at the reprimand. He pulls back, all previous determination fading with a tight roll of his lips and a short dip of his head.

Hux tries desperately to remember that some space is what he’s wanting, but all sensibility scatters as he moves before Ren can get too far, planning for only a quick, teasing peck, but perhaps he should’ve expected to be pressed into the wall. He digs into Ren’s hip with his free hand, beneath the cloak and over his belt, grasping across the flesh underneath while shifting his grip from Ren’s jaw to around his nape.

Ren moans low, promptly lurching in closer and one hand spreading wide across Hux’s front, just inside his jacket. His other arm wraps around in the same moment of a more muted whimper, leaving him holding Hux with a particular desperation, betrayed by fingers clutching at his lower back.

Hux finds himself answering with his own urgency, winding his hand deep in Ren’s hair. It’s smooth under his gloves and he wishes he weren’t wearing them, could instead feel every strand beneath his fingers. He pulls back slightly, feeling Ren’s breath hot across his lips, and open his eyes to find dark eyes already looking back, pupils blown wide.

“–cuse me,” an unfamiliar voice interrupts, accompanied by telltale thumps of even footsteps that effectively kill any arousal. “Supreme Leader?”

Hux jerks with a start, catching Ren’s dismayed pout at the same moment a stranger’s gloved hand wraps around the curtain barrier to pull.

“The Admiral – ” the voice squeaks, loud and then soft again, losing all professionalism with a marked backpedal and thunk into the door. “Apologies! Many apologies!”

Ren makes it clear he’s in favor of ignoring the interruption, leaning in again, then tugging hard on Hux’s jacket and pouting when Hux turns away to look to the curtain. Of course, _he_ doesn’t care about being caught – no one would dare make unsubtle remarks to _his _face about lack of propriety.

Granted…

“Yes?” Hux asks, turning his cheek further when Ren softly noses at his jaw. Potential rumor aside, they are _married_, aren’t they? It might barely make a blip as gossip.

“Deepest apologies, sirs,” the messenger says, sounding now as if they’re speaking through a reedy straw. “The Admiral requested your presence – should I inform him… it isn’t possible?”

Hux is forced to demonstrably shove Ren back by the _throat_ when he tries to move in more insistently, the hand at his back dropping to squeeze obscenely at his ass. “We’ll be there in a moment.”

“Yes, sir,” the messenger says, followed by a conspicuous stumble and the hiss of a door release.

“_Why_?” Ren protests, in little more than a low growl.

“Because we’re not here to snog,” Hux says, moving Ren back further with a push at his shoulder to join the one at his neck, then doing his best to straighten Ren’s robe. He’s thankful for the irregular fabric underneath, making it difficult to tell if it’s been mussed.

Ren allows the primping if only to sulk, shoulders hunching forward and mouth gaining a surly edge. “No one says that anymore.”

“What?” Hux says, glancing up to be briefly catch Ren’s eyes, a bit lost.

“_Snog_,” Ren sneers, upper lip twitching unflatteringly with the taunt. “You talk like a forty-year-old Imperial holo sometimes.”

Hux narrows his eyes as he feels muscle jump in his jaw, irked by an insult he doesn’t quite understand. He decides to allow Ren just a bit closer, letting him think he’s won, which gives him the perfect opportunity to sharply dig his fingers into a sensitive place at Ren’s back, just under his ribs and right over the kidneys.

Ren grunts and shoves away, stumbling backward and clasping his hand over his side in just the next instant. His shoulders fall in the next instant, while he looks down at his clean hand and intact side.

“What?” Hux says, hiding a smirk between rolling lips. He turns on his heel, reaching for the balcony curtain. “Didn’t I already say it would be stupid to kill you now.”

“Ass,” Ren says, then inhales with a snarl, his anger now audible to set with being almost palpable. “I should throw you off this building.”

“You won’t,” Hux says, listening to Ren stomp after him while he crosses the room. He opens the door with a frown, glancing between ends of the hall and seeing it near the same as it was half hour ago. It somehow feels… like it should be different.

“Are you meant to participate in some manner?” Hux asks, ignoring the sporadic tugging of the chains at his back, unsure if it’s by physical hand or damnable Force. He hopes it doesn’t lead to another tacky attempt to stumble him up. “I’d hardly believe you would _volunteer_.”

Ren keeps silent until they’re nearly back in to the ballroom. “Don’t you know?”

“I wasn’t even going to be here,” Hux reminds, briefly remembering all the work he’s left to idle, and wondering mournfully if he’ll ever be allowed to simply go back to his desk. The pomp is only enjoyable if he doesn’t have to speak directly to the people for whom he’s putting on the show.

“But you’ve been managing my reign,” Ren says snidely, stepping on Hux’s heel in such a manner that it must be deliberate retribution for earlier.

Hux reaches back, smacking Ren at the hip in half-hearted attempt to shove backward. He could’ve done without the interruption, as well, if neither of them even knows what is about to happen. He’s going to be frustrated the entire night; granted, if Ren feels even half as similar, they’ll likely be on their way within the half hour.

Ren silently confirms by rudely shouldering past Hux, preceding him to the door and practically throwing it open with an outstretched hand. The ballroom behind it barely reacts, still at a dull roar, cliques here or there in clusters of perceived privilege. It looks absolutely _nothing_ like anyone is readying for some kind of ceremony, and everything like a pointless power play by a moron with none.

Yustes himself stands waiting just near the entrance, rushing forward with a pair of officers toadying on either side. “Supreme Leader,” he says, nodding in a manner quite like a short bow, then glancing to Hux in similar deferment, but without verbally acknowledging him; how perfectly insubordinate.

Ren exhales a breath not unlike a growl. “Admiral.”

“I trust you’re finding the gala satisfactory, sir,” Yustes says, tone confident but his smile collapsing just slightly – an evident desperation at the edges. “Many here weren’t able to attend your coronation. I believe they would be interested should you want to say a few words?”

Hux peeks over to Ren, watching his expression spasm with indignation. He looks away, doing his best to keep his mouth in a neutral line rather than a smirk. It’s clear Yustes is testing some limit, seeing how suggestible Ren might be, which is admirable, but he’s certainly going about it in all the wrong ways. It’s not as if he’s only just met Ren, either, as Hux is fairly sure Yustes was present two years ago at a weapons summit.

“The First Order will be prosperous under my leadership,” Ren says, speaking slowly and noticeably raising his voice with every next word, though not particularly angrily – he seems instead to be playing along in predictably the most irritating, condescending manner possible. “I have no need to readdress _fact, _Admiral. Unless, you need reminding.”

Yustes straightens with a blink, jaw twitching and eyes darting to the side in notice of the growing audience. It’s not a subtle movement, but it doesn’t need to be when Ren is in such a mood and doesn’t care to notice, though Yustes is surely unaware of Ren’s shite sense of humor.

“The only development to bring _attention_ to is my espousal to Grand Marshal Hux,” Ren adds, voice far, far too loud, reaching for Hux’s hands and proceeding to _kiss_ them at the knuckle, now with the attention of the entire ballroom, as if it’s habit. His lips there are almost more of a shock than they had been when against Hux’s own, warm despite the barrier of his gloves and complemented by Ren’s firm grip.

Hux hears the startled tittering rise like a wave, as typically reserved First Order personnel react from wall to wall at the shameless display of intimacy. He understands completely – feels that everyone seeing this may be worse than if they had instead been walked in on mid-coitus.

Ren pulls back with a twitch upward of his mouth, looking rather pleased, though thankfully he seems to notice the aghast stares and scandalized muttering of onlookers in quick time. He frowns and leans in close with a murmur. “Is this not done here?”

“No,” Hux says tightly, only the threat of further embarrassment keeping him from tugging back his hands. He knows his face must be flushed something ugly. “Certainly not.”

Ren seems to absorb that, though he doesn’t let go of Hux’s hands; in fact, he simply does the mortifying act of bowing and repeating the affection, lips a shock even the second time. He is absolutely shameless in this rare good temper.

Even worse, _Hux_ is starting to feel a little prideful. It would hardly do for anyone to walk up to him now and brag of how they might replace him in Ren’s bed. He hopes Daari is choking on his assumptions at the sight of Ren practically prostrating himself.

‘_Prigs_,’ Ren comments, straightening now with a pointed catch of Hux’s eye; he seems only more amused when it earns a glare in return.

“Sir?” Yustes prompts weakly, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Was I not clear?” Ren says, looking back to Yustes like he hasn’t just done something earth-shattering. He finally drops Hux’s hands, through doesn’t move away, and the sidelong glances in the ballroom linger even while the gawkers return to their own circles. “I’ve got better things to do than _say a few words_.”

Yustes gawks for a pair of seconds, then nods stiffly with a marked look to the ground. “Yes, sir.”

“And remember your place,” Ren adds, his voice slightly less stern but no less harsh, soon takes a step back, only to visibly hesitate slightly with a look sideways and a marked tug of Force at the back of Hux’s jacket.

Hux resists an impulse to roll his eyes, folding his hands at his back and looking down at Yustes’ form. “Enjoy the gala, Admiral.”

_‘Or don’t,_’ Ren offers, between Hux’s ears, as he proceeds to lead toward the exit hall.

The troopers in the hall look startled, their eyes wide and bows slightly out of sync, directing back to the lift. It seems to do little to effect their duty, as the shuttle is waiting when the door opens in evidence of being dutifully called at their departure. The pilot approaching quickly and straight-backed, but reveals their own nerves with a hunch while opening the hatch, and Hux realizes that they must all think Ren and he are leaving angry, rather than simply by whim. The rest of the gala probably even assumes the same, the way Ren had acted and none of them realizing it was half-joke. 

Ren slips quickly into a seat just next to Hux, rather than his two away as before, and exhales a sigh like he’s just finished a months long mission. The childish spreading only gets worse when the shuttle takes off, legs kicking out like a petulant child into the walkway.

Hux looks over, raising an eyebrow, “You realize you’ll have to go to many more of these, and you cannot leave every single one in a tizzy.”

“I can,” Ren disagrees, knocking his head to the back of the seat and closing his eyes against the roof. “I’m the Supreme Leader.”

Hux rolls his eyes, reaching into his pocket for a quick look at his data pad. He’d lasted nearly the entire party without trying to work, which is probably a personal best, and he can see it lost him only the chance to interject on a pointless argument about shuttle placement from twenty parsecs away.

“You know, I think…” Ren trails off mid-interruption, head turning to share a dark-eyed look; a directed wetting of his lips. “I felt your lust last night.”

“That’s hardly – ” Hux sighs, answering the stare for a few spare seconds before forcing a dismissive shrug. “You imagined it.”

“That’s a lie,” Ren says, looking delighted now, shifting on his elbow a few centimeters and lowering his voice. “What were you thinking?”

“Nothing,” Hux grits through his teeth, exhaling hard and looking toward the other side of the shuttle, concentrating hard on the landing rail rather than the heat flushing up his neck. He can feel Ren still staring, and staring, then grits his teeth while he resigns to admitting the weakness. “It was… an idle impulse for something one generally does alone.”

“Ah,” Ren intones, drawing out the sound with a perceptible lean closer, and his sprawl soon has him shoved up against Hux’s side. “But you weren’t alone.”

“I was very aware of that, yes,” Hux says, keeping the words flat and hoping Ren sees the jump in his cheek.

Ren predictably doesn’t care to notice the irritation, daring to reach out and press at Hux’s wrist with a pair of fingers. “What if… you indulged this _impulse_ while you weren’t alone?”

“You are being incredibly assumptive,” Hux snaps, pulling his hand back and glancing to the pilot, thankfully being very dutiful to their task. He lowers his voice again, but still doesn’t look at Ren, feeling almost unable to; a small part of him wants to simply let it go, to indulge, but his pride demands otherwise. “The manner you’ve gone about all of this – you know it’s appalling. A few kisses aren’t going to change that.”

“That’s such – ” Ren breathes an explosive sigh, quiet for moments; his voice when he next speaks is oddly suppliant. “What if I earn it?”

Hux risks catching Ren’s eye and finds him staring back, chin slightly lifted and eyes a little wide. “And how?”

“On my knees.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on the [twitters](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en) at Ezlebe.


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